She laughed loud and grasped the lapels of his jacket. “Oh, Martin!” she cried, “you’re a gem, a rare jewel. You haven’t changed one little bit. And for Heaven’s sake don’t change!” “If you mean that I haven’t turned from a gentleman into a cad, then I haven’t changed,” said Martin freeing himself, “and I’m glad of it.” She tossed her head and the laughter died from her face. “I don’t see how you would be a cad to have fallen in love with a girl who is neither unattractive nor a fool, and has been your sole companion from morning to night for three weeks. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have done it.” “I don’t believe it,” said Martin. “I have a higher estimate of the honour of my fellow-men.” “If that’s your opinion of me——” she said, and turning swiftly walked away. Martin overtook her. “Do you want me to fall in love with you?” he asked. She halted for a second and stamped her foot. “No. Ten thousand times no. If you did I’d throw vitriol over you.” She marched on. Martin followed in an obfuscated frame of mind. She led the way round the ramparts and out into the narrow, cobble-paved streets of the old town, past dilapidated glories of the Renaissance, where once great nobles had entertained kings and now the proletariat hung laundry to dry over royal salamanders and proud escutcheons, past the Maison de Saint Simon, with its calm and time-mellowed ornament and exquisite oriels, past things over which, but yesterday, but that morning, they had lingered lovingly, into the Place du Mûrier. There she paused, as if seeking her bearings. “Where are you going?” asked Martin, somewhat breathlessly. “To some place where I can be alone,” she flashed. “Very well,” said he, and raised his cap and left her. In a few seconds he heard her call. “Martin!” He turned. “Yes?” “I’m anything you like to call me,” she said. “It’s not your fault. It’s my temper. But you’ve got to learn it’s better not to turn women down flat like that, even when they speak in jest.” “I’m very sorry, Corinna,” he said, smiling gravely, “but when one jests on such subjects I don’t know where I am.” They crossed the square slowly, side by side. “I suppose neither you nor anybody else could understand,” she said. “I was angry with you, but if you had played the fool I should have been angrier still.” “Why?” he asked. She looked straight ahead with a strained glance and for a minute or two did not reply. At last: “You remember Fortinbras mentioning the name of Camille Fargot?” “Oh!” said Martin. “That’s why,” said Corinna. “Is he at Brantôme?” asked Martin, with brow perplexed by the memory of the ridiculous mother. “No, I wish to God he was.” “Are you engaged?” “In a sort of a way,” said Corinna, gloomily. “I see,” said Martin. “You don’t see a little bit in the world, she retorted with a sudden laugh. “You’re utterly mystified.” “I’m not,” he declared stoutly. “Why on earth shouldn’t you have a love affair?”