She sighed bitterly.  “Think of your family,” she murmured; “and think of mine!”

Vendale drew her a little nearer to him.

“If you dwell on such an obstacle as that,” he said, “I shall think but one thought—­I shall think I have offended you.”

She started, and looked up.  “O, no!” she exclaimed innocently.  The instant the words passed her lips, she saw the construction that might be placed on them.  Her confession had escaped her in spite of herself.  A lovely flush of colour overspread her face.  She made a momentary effort to disengage herself from her lover’s embrace.  She looked up at him entreatingly.  She tried to speak.  The words died on her lips in the kiss that Vendale pressed on them.  “Let me go, Mr. Vendale!” she said faintly.

“Call me George.”

She laid her head on his bosom.  All her heart went out to him at last.  “George!” she whispered.

“Say you love me!”

Her arms twined themselves gently round his neck.  Her lips, timidly touching his cheek, murmured the delicious words—­“I love you!”

In the moment of silence that followed, the sound of the opening and closing of the house-door came clear to them through the wintry stillness of the street.

Marguerite started to her feet.

“Let me go!” she said.  “He has come back!”

She hurried from the room, and touched Madame Dor’s shoulder in passing.  Madame Dor woke up with a loud snort, looked first over one shoulder and then over the other, peered down into her lap, and discovered neither stockings, worsted, nor darning-needle in it.  At the same moment, footsteps became audible ascending the stairs.  “Mon Dieu!” said Madame Dor, addressing herself to the stove, and trembling violently.  Vendale picked up the stockings and the ball, and huddled them all back in a heap over her shoulder.  “Mon Dieu!” said Madame Dor, for the second time, as the avalanche of worsted poured into her capacious lap.

The door opened, and Obenreizer came in.  His first glance round the room showed him that Marguerite was absent.

“What!” he exclaimed, “my niece is away?  My niece is not here to entertain you in my absence?  This is unpardonable.  I shall bring her back instantly.”

Vendale stopped him.

“I beg you will not disturb Miss Obenreizer,” he said.  “You have returned, I see, without your friend?”

“My friend remains, and consoles our afflicted compatriot.  A heart-rending scene, Mr. Vendale!  The household gods at the pawnbroker’s—­the family immersed in tears.  We all embraced in silence.  My admirable friend alone possessed his composure.  He sent out, on the spot, for a bottle of wine.”

“Can I say a word to you in private, Mr. Obenreizer?”

“Assuredly.”  He turned to Madame Dor.  “My good creature, you are sinking for want of repose.  Mr. Vendale will excuse you.”