“I’m not making my decisions, or unmaking them, with reference to you; it’s with reference to Monsieur de Bienville.  He has my father’s consent to his asking me to be his wife.  I understand that, according to the formal French fashion, he’s going to do it to-morrow.  Before I give him an answer I must know that he is such a man as I could marry.”

“You would have thought him so if you hadn’t heard this about me.”

“Even so, it’s better for me to have heard it.  Any prudent person would tell you that.  What I’m going to ask you to do now will not be for your sake; it will be for mine.”

“You’re going to ask me to do something?”

“Yes; to see Monsieur de Bienville.”

Diane recoiled with an expression of dismay.

“I know it will be hard for you,” Miss Grimston pursued, “and I wouldn’t ask you to do it if it were not the straightest way out of a perplexing situation.  I’ve confidence enough in him to believe that when he has seen you and heard your story, he’ll act according to the dictates of a nature which I know to be essentially honorable, even if it’s weak.  You can see what that will mean to us all.  It will not only clear you and rehabilitate him, but it will bring happiness to me.”

There was something in the way in which these brief statements were made that gave them the nature of an appeal.  The very difficulty of the reserved heart in speaking out, the shame-flushed cheek—­the subdued voice—­the halting breath—­had on Diane a more potent effect than eloquence.  What was left of her own hope, too, at once put forth its claim at the possibility of getting justice.  It was a matter of taking her courage in both hands, in one tremendous effort, but the fact that this girl believed in her was a stimulus to making the attempt.  Before they parted—­with stammering expressions of mutual sympathy—­she had given her word to do it.

XVI

In the degree to which masculine good looks and elegance are accessories to impressing a maid’s heart, the Marquis de Bienville had reason to be sure of the effect he was producing, as he bent and kissed Miss Marion Grimston’s hand, in her aunt’s drawing-room, on the following afternoon.  He was not surprised to detect the thrill that shot through her being at his act of homage, and communicated itself back to him; for he was tolerably certain of her love.  That had been, to all intents and purposes, confessed more than two years ago; while, during the intervening time, he had not lacked signs that the gift once bestowed had never been withdrawn.  He had stood for a few seconds at the threshold on entering the room, just to rejoice consciously at his great good-fortune.  She had risen, but not advanced, to meet him, her tall figure, sheathed in some close-fitting, soft stuff, thrown into relief by the dark-blue velvet portiere behind her.  He was not unaware of his unworthiness in the presence of this superb young creature, and as he crossed the room it was with the humility of a worshipper before a shrine.