“And I can’t think of any one else who does love me for myself.”  She gave a thin, cackling laugh.  “They love my money.  Le bon Dieu has counted me worthy of having a good deal during these later years.  And they’re all very fond of it.  But she’s fond of me.  I was very angry with her once; but now I want her to be happy with the man—­with the man she’s in love with.  So when Mr. Davenant came and told me of your noble character—­”

“The devil he did!”

Ashley sprang out of his chair.  The cigar dropped from his limp fingers.  In stooping to pick it up he caught the echo of his own exclamation.  “I beg your pardon—­” he began, when he had raised himself.  He grew redder than ever; his eyes danced.

“Ca ne fait rien, Col-on-el.  It’s an expression of which I myself often use the equivalent—­in French.  But I don’t wonder you’re pleased.  Your friend Mr. Davenant made the journey to Europe purposely to tell me how highly you were qualified as a suitor for my niece’s hand.  When one has a friend like that—­”

“But he’s not my friend.”

“You surprise me, Col-on-el.  He spoke of you with so much praise—­so much affection, I might say.  He said no one could be so worthy to marry my niece—­no one could make her so happy—­no one could give her such a distinguished position in the world—­no one was so fine a fellow in his own person—­”

He looked mystified.  “But he’s out there in Michigan—­”

She puffed delicately at her cigarette.  “He stayed with me two weeks at Melcourt-le-Danois.  That is, he stayed at the inn in the village.  It was the same thing.  I was very angry with my niece before that.  It was he who made me see differently.  If it were not for him I shouldn’t be here.  He traveled to France expressly to beg my help—­how shall I say?—­on your behalf—­in simplifying things—­so that you and Olivia might be free from your sense of obligation to him—­and might marry—­”

“Did he say he was in love with her himself?”

She ignored the hoarse suffering in his voice to take another puff or two at her cigarette.  “Ma foi, Col-on-el, he didn’t have to.”

“Did he say—­” He swallowed hard, and began again, more hoarsely:  “Did he say she was—­in love with—­with him?”

There was a hint of rebuke in her tone.  “He’s a very loyal gentleman.  He didn’t.”

“Did he make you think—?”

“What he made me think, Col-on-el, is my own affair.”

He jumped to his feet, throwing his cigar violently into the fire.  For a minute or two he stood glaring at the embers.  When he turned on her it was savagely.

“May I ask your motive in springing this on me, Marquise?”

“Mon Dieu, Col-on-el, I thought you’d like to know what a friend you have.”

“Damn his friendship.  That’s not the reason.  You’ve something up your sleeve.”

She looked up at him innocently.  “Have I?  Then I must leave it to you to tell me what it is.  But when you do,” she added, smiling, “I hope you’ll take another tone.  In France men are gallant with women—­”