“Very well,” he said.  “That means you belong to me until they return,” and a thrill ran through him.  “Has not your father, has not your hostess, given you into my charge?  And, now you yourself have sealed the compact, we shall see if I can make you happy.”

As he said the words “you belong to me,” Theodora thrilled too—­a sensation as of an electric shock almost quivered through her.  Belonged to him—­ah!—­what would that mean?

He called his chauffeur, who started the automobile and drove under the covered porte cochere where they stood.

Lord Bracondale had not spoken all the time he was helping her in and arranging rugs with the tenderest solicitude, but when they were settled and started—­it was a coupe with a great deal of glass about it, so that they got plenty of air—­he turned to her.

“Now, do you know what I am going to do with you, madame?  I shall only unfold my plans bit by bit, and watch your face to see if I have chosen well.  I am going to take you first to the Petit Trianon, and we are going to walk leisurely through the rooms.  I am not going to worry you with much sight-seeing and tourists and lessons of history, but I want you to glance at this setting of the life picture of poor Marie Antoinette, because it is full of sentiment and it will make you appreciate more the hameau and her playground afterwards.  Something tells me you would rather see these things than all the fine pictures and salons of the stiff chateau.”

“Oh yes,” said Theodora; “you have guessed well this time.”

“Then here we are, almost arrived,” he said, presently.

They had been going very fast, and could see the square, white house in front of them, and when they alighted at the gates she found the guardian was an old friend of Lord Bracondale’s, and they were left free to wander alone in the rooms between the batches of tourists.

But every one knows the Petit Trianon, and can surmise how its beauties appealed to Theodora.

“Oh, the poor, poor queen!” she said, with a sad ring in her expressive voice, when they came to the large salon; “and she sat here and played on her harpsichord—­and I wonder if she and Fersen were ever alone—­and I wonder if she really loved him—­”

Then she stopped suddenly; she had told herself she must never talk about love to any one.  It was a subject that she must have nothing to do with.  It could never come her way, now she was married to Josiah Brown, and it would be unwise to discuss it, even in the abstract.

The same beautiful, wild-rose tint tinged the white velvet as once before when she had spoken of Jean d’Agreve, and again Lord Bracondale experienced a sensation of satisfaction.

But this time he would not let her talk about the weather.  The subject of love interested him, too.

“Yes, I am sure she did,” he said, “and I always shall believe Fersen was her lover; no life, even a queen’s, can escape one love.”