“You wrote a letter to me,” he said, remembering.  “It was in quite a different tone.”  He advanced again.

“Was I so indiscreet?” jestingly, though the rise and fall of her bosom was more than normal.  “Monsieur, do not think for the briefest moment that I followed you!”

“I know not what to think.  But that letter . . .”

“What did I say?”

“You said that France was large, but that if I loved you I would find you.”

“And you searched diligently; you sought the four ends of France?” with quiet sarcasm.

He could find no words.

“Ah!  Have you that letter?  I should like to read it.”  She put forth her hand with a little imperious gesture.

He fumbled in his blouse.  Had his mind been less blunted he would have thought twice before trusting the missive into her keeping.  But he gave it to her docilely.  There beat but one thought in his brain:  she was here in Quebec.

She took down a candle from the mantel.  She read aloud, and her tone was flippant. “’Forgive!  How could I have doubted so gallant a gentleman!’ What was it I doubted?” puckering her brow.  “No matter.”  She went on:  “’You have asked me if I love you.  Find me and put the question.  France is large.  If you love me you will find me.  You have complained that I have never permitted you to kiss me.’” She paused, glanced obliquely at the scrawl, and shrugged.  “Can it be possible that I wrote this—­’I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times’?” Calmly she folded the letter.  “Well, Monsieur, and you searched thoroughly, I have no doubt.  This would be an incentive to the most laggard gallant.”

“I . . .  I was in deep trouble.”  The words choked him.  “I was about to start . . .”  He glanced about helplessly.

“And . . . ?” The scorn on her face deepened.  He became conscious that the candle and the letter were drawing dangerously close.

“Good God, Diane! how can I tell you?  You would not understand! . . .  What are you doing?” springing toward her to stay her arm.  But he was too late.  The flame was already eating into the heart of that precious testament.

She moved swiftly, and a table stood between them.  He was powerless.  The letter crumbled into black flakes upon the table.  She set down the candle, breathing quickly, her amber eyes blazing with triumph.

“That was not honorable.  I trusted you.”

“I trusted, too, Monsieur; I trusted overmuch.  Besides, desiring to become a nun, it would have compromised me.”

“Did you come three thousand miles to accomplish this?” anger swelling his tones.

“It was a part of my plans,” coolly.  “To how many gallants have you shown this ridiculous letter?”

His brain began to clear; for he saw that his love hung in the balance.  “And had I followed you to the four ends of France, had I sought you from town to city and from city to town . . . ?”