“I have danced, mademoiselle.”

“And are now waiting for some one?”

“No.  If mademoiselle will honor me I—­”

“I also have danced many times, monsieur, and am inclined to rest a little.”

Barrington looked at her, and a pair of violet eyes met his glance through her mask, deep, almost unfathomable eyes, difficult to read and filled with the light that lures men on to strange and wonderful things.  Her auburn hair had brown and darker shadows in it, the color one may see in a distant wood in late autumn when the sun touches it; her transparent skin was delicately tinted, such a tint as may be seen in rare china.  Her small, well-shaped mouth seemed made for smiles, yet there was a line of firmness in it suggestive of determination.  There was a cadence in her voice, a musical rise and fall which held an appeal.  The lines of her figure were graceful, there was youth and vigor in every movement, and without being above the medium height, the pose of her head on her shapely shoulders gave her a certain air of stateliness, natural and becoming to her it seemed.  She was a woman designed for happiness and laughter, Barrington thought, and he felt she was not happy.  He wondered if there were not tears in those violet eyes, and he had a sudden longing to behold her without a mask.  It would have been easy for her to make him again forget his mission, and why he was in the chateau of Beauvais.  Youth recognized youth, and that indefinite longing which is a part of youth seemed to enfold them for an instant.  Perhaps the woman felt it as much as he did, for she broke the silence rather abruptly.

“I have noticed that monsieur has not entered much into the gayety.”

Barrington was on his guard in a moment.  He could not afford to be questioned too closely.

“I am greatly honored by mademoiselle’s notice.”

“That is nothing,” she returned as though the implied compliment displeased her.  “It seemed to me you were a stranger in Beauvais, and strangers here may have sad memories behind them.”

“They do their best to forget, mademoiselle,” he answered.  The laughter of a woman as she passed, dancing, gave point to the assertion.  “It is wonderful.  I cannot understand it.”

“Better laugh and live than die weeping,” she said.  “Those who live shall live to repay.”

“And perchance some good shall come out of the evil.”

She looked at him quickly.

“In Beauvais it is somewhat dangerous to be a philosopher, monsieur.  We cling to one idea which by brutal force has been driven into our souls—­revenge.  It is not safe to preach anything short of that, we have suffered too much.”

“There was not such a deep meaning in my words,” he said.

“Still, the warning may not be out of place,” and she turned to leave him.

“Before I go, mademoiselle, you may help me.  Can you tell me where I shall find Mademoiselle St. Clair?”