Old David gave a little growling laugh.

“French dinner-parties at least keep people up to the mark in the art of conversation,” said he.  “But that is a lost art, anyhow, nowadays, so I suppose one might as well be quite informal and have done with it.  Who were there?”

“Oh, well”—­she considered, “no one, I should think, who would interest you.  Rather an indifferent set.  Pleasant people, but not inspiring.  The Marquis had some young relative or connection who was quite odious and made the most surprising noises over his food.  I met a new man whom I think I am going to like very much, indeed.  He wouldn’t interest you, because he doesn’t mean anything in particular, and of course he oughtn’t to interest me for the same reason.  He’s just an idle, pleasant young man, but—­he has great charm—­very great charm.  His name is Ste. Marie.  Baron de Vries seems very fond of him, which surprised me, rather.”

“Ste. Marie!” exclaimed the old gentleman, in obvious astonishment.  “Ste. Marie de Mont Perdu?”

“Yes,” she said.  “Yes, that is the name, I believe.  You know him, then?  I wonder he didn’t mention it.”

“I knew his father,” said old David.  “And his grandfather, for that matter.  They’re Gascon, I think, or Bearnais; but this boy’s mother will have been Irish, unless his father married again.

“So you’ve been meeting a Ste. Marie, have you?—­and finding that he has great charm?” The old gentleman broke into one of his growling laughs, and reached for a long black cigar, which he lighted, eying his granddaughter the while over the flaring match.  “Well,” he said, when the cigar was drawing, “they all have had charm.  I should think there has never been a Ste. Marie without it.  They’re a sort of embodiment of romance, that family.  This boy’s great-grandfather lost his life defending a castle against a horde of peasants in 1799; his grandfather was killed in the French campaign in Mexico in ’39—­at Vera Cruz it was, I think; and his father died in a filibustering expedition ten years ago.  I wonder what will become of the last Ste. Marie?” Old David’s eyes suddenly sharpened.  “You’re not going to fall in love with Ste. Marie and marry him, are you?” he demanded.

Miss Benham gave a little angry laugh, but her grandfather saw the color rise in her cheeks for all that.

“Certainly not,” she said, with great decision, “What an absurd idea!  Because I meet a man at a dinner-party and say I like him, must I marry him to-morrow?  I meet a great many men at dinners and things, and a few of them I like.  Heavens!”

“‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’” muttered old David into his huge beard.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Miss Benham, politely.