“Then it’s true!  Oh, my God, I know I shall lose him!”

Mrs. Eveleth flung her cane to the floor and dropped into a seat, leaning on the table and covering her face with her hands.  For a minute she moaned harshly, but when she looked up her eyes were tearless.

“And this is my reward,” she cried, “for the kindness I’ve shown you!  After all, you are nothing but a wanton.”

Diane kept her self-control, but she grew pale.

“That’s odd,” was all she permitted herself to say, delicately flicking the crumbs from her fingertips; “because it was to prove the contrary that George called Monsieur de Bienville out.”

“Bienville!  You’ve stooped to him?”

“Did I say so?” Diane asked, with a sudden significant lifting of the head.

“There’s no need to say so.  There must have been something—­”

“There was something—­something Monsieur de Bienville invented.”

“Wasn’t it a pity for him to go to the trouble of invention—?”

“When he could have found so much that was true,” Diane finished, with dangerous quietness.  “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?”

“You have no right to ascribe words to me that I haven’t uttered.  I never said so.”

“No; that’s true; I prefer to say it for you.  It’s safer, in that it leaves me nothing to resent.”

“Oh, what shall I do!  What shall I do!” Mrs. Eveleth moaned, wringing her hands.  “My boy is gone from me.  He will never come back.  I’ve always been sure that if he ever did this, it would be the end.  It’s my fault for having brought him up among your foolish, hot-headed people.  He will have thrown his life away—­and for nothing!”

“No; not that,” Diane corrected; “not even if the worst comes to the worst.”

“What do you mean?  If the worst comes to the worst, he will have sacrificed himself—­”

“For my honor; and George himself would be the first to tell you that it’s worth dying for.”

Diane rose as she spoke, Mrs. Eveleth following her example.  For a brief instant they stood as if measuring each other’s strength, till they started with a simultaneous shock at the sharp call of the telephone from an adjoining room.  With a smothered cry Diane sprang to answer it, while Mrs. Eveleth, helpless with dread, remained standing, as though frozen to the spot.

“Oui—­oui—­oui,” came Diane’s voice, speaking eagerly.  “Oui, c’est bien Madame George Eveleth.  Oui, oui.  Non.  Je comprends.  C’est Monsieur de Melcourt.  Oui—­oui—­Dites-le-moi tout de suite—­j’insiste—­Oui—­oui.  Ah-h-h!”

The last, prolonged, choking exclamation came as the cry of one who sinks, smitten to the heart.  Mrs. Eveleth was able to move at last.  When she reached the other room, Diane was crouched in a little heap on the floor.

“He’s dead?  He’s dead?” the mother cried, in frenzied questioning.

But Diane, with glazed eyes and parted lips, could only nod her head in affirmation.