Others caught her spirit.  An animation came into the conversation, there was real laughter.

“Mademoiselle,” said a voice behind her, the voice of the Abbe, sonorous and important.  “Mademoiselle, permit me the honor to present to you the Marquis de Castellux.”

Jeanne turned, the smile still upon her lips.  The Marquis bowed so low his face was hidden for a moment, but he took her hand and, as he raised it to his lips, pressed it sharply.

“I am honored, mademoiselle.”

Then his head was raised.  The smile was still upon her lips, kept there by a great effort.  The sudden pressure of her fingers had warned her, and she gave no sign of her astonishment.

She was looking into the face of Richard Barrington.

CHAPTER XXII

THE COMING OF SATURDAY

“Monsieur L’Abbe.”

“Mademoiselle.”

“I find Monsieur de Castellux very pleasant, a little provincial as you supposed, but with wit.  We have common friends, too, who have suffered.  We shall have much to talk about.”

Barely an hour had passed since the introduction, and very little conversation had passed between Jeanne and Barrington, but that little had been to the point.

“We have much to say to one another, mademoiselle,” Barrington said; “we must let these people believe that we have common interests to account for our friendship.  The Abbe is inclined to be inquisitive, you must explain to him.  I will casually let others know that our families are connected.  Where is it easiest to be alone here?”

“In the breakfast room.”

“No one watches us there?”

“I think not.  There is no desire to run away; people remain here to be safe.”

“Then to-morrow, mademoiselle,” said Barrington.  “We will not notice each other much further to-night.”

Jeanne did as she was told, it seemed natural to obey Richard Barrington, and she explained to the Abbe, who was delighted that so presentable a person had joined the company.

“Mademoiselle, I shall look to become better acquainted with him,” he said.  “Most probably he and I have common friends, too.”

It was not until Jeanne had shut herself in her own room that night, that she realized fully what the coming of Richard Barrington meant to her.  It was still Wednesday, but what a difference a few short hours had made!  Saturday had lost its meaning for her.  There was no sense of fear or apprehension at her heart; she was strangely happy.  Not a word of his plans had Richard Barrington whispered to her, no explanation of how he came to be there; he told her that he had got her letter, that was all.  Yet she suddenly felt safe.  That which was best to be done, Richard Barrington would do, and it would certainly be successful.  On this point no doubts disturbed her.  Doubts came presently in another way.  The reflection in her mirror brought them.