and again, the black gauze head-dress nodded, dropped forward, recovered itself.  A little heap of stockings slid softly from Madame Dor’s lap, and remained unnoticed on the floor.  A prodigious ball of worsted followed the stockings, and rolled lazily under the table.  The black gauze head-dress nodded, dropped forward, recovered itself, nodded again, dropped forward again, and recovered itself no more.  A composite sound, partly as of the purring of an immense cat, partly as of the planing of a soft board, rose over the hushed voices of the lovers, and hummed at regular intervals through the room.  Nature and Madame Dor had combined together in Vendale’s interests.  The best of women was asleep.

Marguerite rose to stop—­not the snoring—­let us say, the audible repose of Madame Dor.  Vendale laid his hand on her arm, and pressed her back gently into her chair.

“Don’t disturb her,” he whispered.  “I have been waiting to tell you a secret.  Let me tell it now.”

Marguerite resumed her seat.  She tried to resume her needle.  It was useless; her eyes failed her; her hand failed her; she could find nothing.

“We have been talking,” said Vendale, “of the happy time when we first met, and first travelled together.  I have a confession to make.  I have been concealing something.  When we spoke of my first visit to Switzerland, I told you of all the impressions I had brought back with me to England—­except one.  Can you guess what that one is?”

Her eyes looked stedfastly at the embroidery, and her face turned a little away from him.  Signs of disturbance began to appear in her neat velvet bodice, round the region of the brooch.  She made no reply.  Vendale pressed the question without mercy.

“Can you guess what the one Swiss impression is which I have not told you yet?”

Her face turned back towards him, and a faint smile trembled on her lips.

“An impression of the mountains, perhaps?” she said slyly.

“No; a much more precious impression than that.”

“Of the lakes?”

“No.  The lakes have not grown dearer and dearer in remembrance to me every day.  The lakes are not associated with my happiness in the present, and my hopes in the future.  Marguerite! all that makes life worth having hangs, for me, on a word from your lips.  Marguerite!  I love you!”

Her head drooped as he took her hand.  He drew her to him, and looked at her.  The tears escaped from her downcast eyes, and fell slowly over her cheeks.

“O, Mr. Vendale,” she said sadly, “it would have been kinder to have kept your secret.  Have you forgotten the distance between us?  It can never, never be!”

“There can be but one distance between us, Marguerite—­a distance of your making.  My love, my darling, there is no higher rank in goodness, there is no higher rank in beauty, than yours!  Come! whisper the one little word which tells me you will be my wife!”