“I asked you which you considered would do me most good when we return to England, to continue seeing Sir Baldwin once a week or to have Dr. Wilton permanently in the house with us, and you answer that you quite agree with me!  Agree with what?  Agree with which?  You are talking nonsense, girl!”

Theodora apologized gently, and her white velvet cheeks became tinged with wild roses.  It seemed as if the victoria, with its high-steppers, would never come and pick them up; and it must be at least quarter of an hour’s drive to Henry’s.  She did not understand where it was exactly, but papa had said the coachman would know.

If some one had told her, as Clementine certainly would have done had she been there, that she was simply thus interested and excited because she wished to see again Lord Bracondale, she would have been horrified.  She never had analyzed sensations herself, and the day had not yet arrived when she would begin to do so.

At last they were rolling down the Champs-Elysees.  The mass of chestnut blooms in full glory, the tender green still fresh and springlike, the sky as blue as blue, and every creature in the street with an air of gayety—­that Paris alone seems to inspire in the human race.  It entered into her blood, this rush of spring and hope and laughter and life, and a radiant creature got out of the carriage at Henry’s door.

The two men were waiting for them—­Lord Bracondale and the French Count—­her father and Mrs. McBride had not yet appeared.

Theodora introduced them to her husband, and Lord Bracondale said: 

“Mrs. McBride is always late.  I have found out which is your father’s table; don’t you think we might go and sit down?”

And they did.  Theodora got well into the corner of the velvet sofa, the Count on one side and Lord Bracondale on the other, with Josiah beyond the Count.

They made conversation.  The Frenchman was voluble and agreeable, and the next ten minutes passed without incident.

Josiah, not quite at ease, perhaps, but on the whole not ill-pleased with his situation.  The Count took all ups and downs as of the day’s work, sure of a good breakfast, sooner or later, unpaid for by himself.  And Lord Bracondale’s thoughts ran somewhat thus: 

“She is even more beautiful in daylight than at night.  She can’t be more than twenty—­what a skin! like a white gardenia petal—­and, good Lord, what a husband!  How revolting, how infamous!  I suppose that old schemer, her father, sold her to him.  Her eyes remind one of forgotten fairy tales of angels.  Can anything be so sweet as that little nose and those baby-red lips.  She has a soul, too, peeping out of the blue when she looks up at one.  She reminds me of Praxiteles’ Psyche when she looks down.  Why did I not meet her long ago?  I believe I ought not to stay now—­something tells me I shall fall deeply into this.  And what a voice!—­as gentle and caressing as a tender dove.  A man would give his soul for such a woman.  As guileless as an infant saint, too—­and sensitive and human and understanding.  I wish to God I had the strength of mind to get up and go this minute—­but I haven’t—­it is fate.”