He stopped short in his speech; she turned round and looked at him with her white, scared face, her wide-open, brown eyes, as if she had seen a ghost.  Ghosts enough, indeed, our poor Madelon had seen during these last five minutes; but they were not visible to Graham, who stood sufficiently astonished and alarmed, as she turned abruptly away again, and disappeared through the glass door into the garden.

“Stay, Madelon!” he cried and followed her out into the night.

It was raining, he found, as soon as he got outside.  The garden had been prettily illuminated with coloured lamps hung along the verandah, and amongst the trees and shrubs, but they were nearly all extinguished now.  It was a bleak mournful night, summer time though it was, the wind moaning and sighing, the rain falling steadily.  Graham, as he passed quickly along the sodden path, had a curious sensation of having been through all this before; another sad, rainy night came to his mind, a lighted street, a dark avenue, and a little passionate figure flying before him, instead of the tall, white one who moved swiftly on now, and finally disappeared beneath the long shoots of climbing plants that overhung a sort of summer-house at the end of a walk.  The lamps were not all extinguished here; the wet leaves glistened as the wind swept the branches to and fro, and Horace, as he entered, could see Madelon sitting by the little table, trembling and shivering, her hair all blown about and shining in the uncertain light.  What had suddenly come over her?  Graham was fairly perplexed.

“Madelon,” he said, going up to her, “what is the matter? has anything happened, or any one vexed you?”

“Non, non,” she cried, jumping up impatiently, and speaking in French as she sometimes did when excited, “je n’ai rien—­rien du tout; leave me, Monsieur Horace, I beg of you!  How you weary me with your questions!  I was rather hot, and came here for a little fresh air.  That was all.”

“You are cooler now,” said graham, as she stood drawing her shawl round her, her teeth chattering.

“Yes,” she said, with a little shiver, “it is rather cold here, and damp; it is raining, is it not?  Let us go back and dance.  I adore dancing; it was papa who first taught it to me; do you know, Monsieur Horace?  He taught me a great many things.”

“You had better not dance any more,” said Graham, taking her little burning hand in his.  “You are overheated already, and will catch cold.”

She snatched away her hand impatiently.

“Ah! do not touch me!” she cried.  “Let us go—­why do we stay here?  I do not want your prescriptions, Monsieur Horace.  I will go and dance.”

“Wait a minute,” said Graham; “let me wrap your shawl closer round you, or you will be wet through:  it is pouring with rain.”

The friendly voice and action went to her heart, and seemed to reproach her for her harsh, careless words.  They walked back in silence to the house; but when they reached the empty music-room again, she put both hands on his arm with an imploring gesture, as if to detain him.