Not because that mirror revealed a recess which she had not previously noticed; not because behind a costly desk therein sat a youngish man, reading a letter; not because he might have been observing her, for it was altogether likely that, to avoid premature interruption, he had avoided looking up; nor because this was evidently Honore Grandissime; but because Honore Grandissime, if this were he, was the same person whom she had seen only with his back turned in the pharmacy—­the rider whose horse ten days ago had knocked her down, the Lieutenant of Dragoons who had unmasked and to whom she had unmasked at the ball!  Fly!  But where?  How?  It was too late; she had not even time to lower her veil.  M. Grandissime looked up at the glass, dropped the letter with a slight start of consternation and advanced quickly toward her.  For an instant her embarrassment showed itself in a mantling blush and a distressful yearning to escape; but the next moment she rose, all a-flutter within, it is true, but with a face as nearly sedate as the inborn witchery of her eyes would allow.

He spoke in Parisian French: 

“Please be seated, madame.”

She sank down.

“Do you wish to see me?”

“No, sir.”

She did not see her way out of this falsehood, but—­she couldn’t say yes.

Silence followed.

“Whom do—­”

“I wish to see M. Honore Grandissime.”

“That is my name, madame.”

“Ah!”—­with an angelic smile; she had collected her wits now, and was ready for war.  “You are not one of his clerks?”

M. Grandissime smiled softly, while he said to himself:  “You little honey-bee, you want to sting me, eh?” and then he answered her question.

“No, madame; I am the gentleman you are looking for.”

“The gentleman she was look—­” her pride resented the fact.  “Me!”—­thought she—­“I am the lady whom, I have not a doubt, you have been longing to meet ever since the ball;” but her look was unmoved gravity.  She touched her handkerchief to her lips and handed him the rent notice.

“I received that from your office the Monday before last.”

There was a slight emphasis in the announcement of the time; it was the day of the run-over.

Honore Grandissime, stopping with the rent-notice only half unfolded, saw the advisability of calling up all the resources of his sagacity and wit in order to answer wisely; and as they answered his call a brighter nobility so overspread face and person that Aurora inwardly exclaimed at it even while she exulted in her thrust.

“Monday before last?”

She slightly bowed.

“A serious misfortune befell me that day,” said M. Grandissime.

“Ah?” replied the lady, raising her brows with polite distress, “but you have entirely recovered, I suppose.”

“It was I, madame, who that evening caused you a mortification for which I fear you will accept no apology.”