“I think I am going to make an immense change and learn to take pleasure in the running brooks,” he said.  “Will you help me?”

“I know so little, and you know so much,” and her sweet eyes became soft and dreamy.  “I could not help you in any way, I fear.”

“Yes, you could—­you could teach me to see all things with fresh eyes.  You could open the door into a new world.”

“Do you know,” she said, irrelevantly, “Sarah—­my eldest sister—­Sarah told me it was unwise ever to talk to strangers except in the abstract—­and here are you and I conversing about our own interests and feelings—­are not we foolish!” She laughed a little nervously.

“No, we are not foolish because we are not strangers—­we never were—­and we never will be.”

“Are not strangers—?”

“No—­do you not feel that sometimes in life one’s friendships begin by antipathy—­sometimes by indifference—­and sometimes by that sudden magnetism of sympathy as if in some former life we had been very near and dear, and were only picking up the threads again, and to such two souls there is no feeling that they are strangers.”

Theodora was too entirely unsophisticated to remain unmoved by this reasoning.  She felt a little thrill—­she longed to continue the subject, and yet dared not.  She turned hesitatingly to the Count, and for the next ten minutes Lord Bracondale only saw the soft outline of her cheek.

He wondered if he had been too sudden.  She was quite the youngest person he had ever met—­he realized that, and perhaps he had acted with too much precipitation.  He would change his tactics.

The Count was only too pleased to engage the attention of Theodora.  He was voluble; she had very little to reply.  Things went smoothly.  Josiah was appreciating an exceedingly good breakfast, and the playful sallies of the fair widow.  All, in fact, was couleur de rose.

“Won’t you talk to me any more?” Lord Bracondale said, after about a quarter of an hour.  He felt that was ample time for her to have become calm, and, beautiful as the outline of her cheek was, he preferred her full face.

“But of course,” said Theodora.  She had not heard more than half what the Count had been saying; she wished vaguely that she might continue the subject of friendship, but she dared not.

“Do you ever go to Versailles?” he asked.  This, at least, was a safe subject.

“I have been there—­but not since—­not this time,” she answered.  “I loved it:  so full of memories and sentiment, and Old-World charm.”

“It would give me much pleasure to take you to see it again,” he said, with grave politeness.  “I must devise some plan—­that is, if you wish to go.”

She smiled.

“It is a favorite spot of mine, and there are some allees in the park more full of the story of spring than your Bois even.”

“I do not see how we can go,” said Theodora.  “Josiah would find it too long a day.”