“We are devoted to Mme. la Duchesse,” said the girl.

“Another, hardly behind it, is discretion,” I continued.

“Madame inculcates it on us daily,” said she.  I took out a napoleon.

“Ladies,” said I, placing the napoleon in the girl’s hand, “I am obliged for your kind attentions.  Good-night!” and I shut the door on the sound of a pleased, excited giggling.  I love to hear such sounds; they make me laugh myself, for joy that this old world, in spite of everything, holds so much merriment; and to their jovial lullaby I fell asleep,

Moreover—­the duchess teaching discretion!  There can have been nothing like it since Baby Charles and Steenie conversed within the hearing of King James!  But, then discretion has two meanings—­whereof the one is “Do it not,” and the other “Tell it not.”  Considering of this ambiguity, I acquitted the duchess of hypocrisy.

At ten o’clock the next morning we got rid of my dear friend Gustave de Berensac.  Candor compels me to put the statement in that form; for the gravity which had fallen upon him the night before endured till the morning, and he did not flinch from administering something very like a lecture to his hostess.  His last words were an invitation to me to get into the carriage and start with him.  When I suavely declined, he told me that I should regret it.  It comforts me to think that his prophecy, though more than once within an ace of the most ample fulfillment, yet in the end was set at naught by the events which followed.

Gustave rolled down the hill, the duchess sighed relief.

“Now,” said she, “we can enjoy ourselves fora few hours, Mr. Aycon.  And after that—­solitude!”

I was really very sorry for the duchess.  Evidently society and gayety were necessary as food and air to her, and her churl of a husband denied them.  My opportunity was short, but I laid myself out to make the most of it.  I could give her nothing more than a pleasant memory, but I determined to do that.

We spent the greater part of the day in a ramble through the woods that lined the slopes of the hill behind the house; and all through the hours the duchess chatted about herself, her life, her family—­and then about the duke.  If the hints she gave were to be trusted, her husband deserved little consideration at her hands, and, at the worst, the plea of reprisal might offer some excuse for her, if she had need of one.  But she denied the need, and here I was inclined to credit her.  For with me, as with Gustave de Berensac before the shadow of Lady Cynthia came between, she was, most distinctly, a “good comrade.”  Sentiment made no appearance in our conversation, and, as the day ruthlessly wore on, I regretted honestly that I must go in deference to a conventionality which seemed, in this case at least—­Heaven forbid that I should indulge in general theories—­to mask no reality.  Yet she was delightful by virtue of the vitality in her; and the woods echoed again and again with our laughter.