“When did you get in?” she inquired.

“I came over from Havre yesterday.  I was busy with some English folk about a mine, or I would have tried to see you last evening.”

“And you will stay—­” She paused.

“Ten days at most.”

“Ah!” she said.  “That’s horrid!  You will miss so many pleasant things!  A Bernhardt first night for one.”

“I’m a horny-handed son of toil, beautiful cousin,” he answered, “and I have come on business only.”

There was a pause, which Dermott felt the Countess was waiting for him to break.

“Patricia,” he said, a beautiful consideration for her in his voice, “I want to spare you in every way I can in reviewing the bitter business of your early marriage.  I have written you only what was absolutely necessary for you to know.  I discovered by accident that your first husband left quite an estate.  If you were his wife and had a living child at the time of his death, and if these facts can be established, this property belongs to you.  You have not as much money as you should have.  I shall get his estate for you—­if I can.”

“About the records?” she inquired.

“If you have them ready I shall go over to Tours to-morrow to make a search for the sister of the priest.”

“Dermott, dear,” the Countess said, putting her hand on his shoulder affectionately, “you are not going to make trouble for any one, are you?”

“Am I not?” he answered, with a short laugh.  “Am I not?”

She took a bundle of papers, which she had evidently prepared for him, from a desk which stood between the windows, but made no motion to give them to him.

“It’s all so far in the past,” she said, “no one can ever know what I suffered.  But I want no one else to suffer in order that I may have what you term my rights.”

“Patricia,” Dermott answered, gravely, “the thing is all a bit in the air as yet.  Your first marriage will be difficult to establish.  The French law requires such absolute proof that I may not be able to obtain it.  Now, don’t let us discuss the matter further, nor worry that kind heart of yours.”  He patted her head affectionately as he spoke.

In the years past she had known him well enough to remember his moods, and she gave him the papers in silence.

“About Mademoiselle Dulany,” she continued.  “Since your letter, I have made inquiries concerning her.  I shall be glad to know her, for her own sake as well as yours.”

“I’m going to ask a great favor of you for her, Patricia,” he answered.  “You live in this great house alone.  It would be better to have more people about you.  I want you to see much of her, for I am hoping that some day she may be my wife.”

He spoke the last word tenderly, a bit wistfully.

“Ah, Dermott,” she cried, “I had no idea!  I shall be so glad to do anything I can!  Why couldn’t she come and stay with me?”