“Peste soit de cette femme!” he said to himself.  “She is the first I ever came across who refused to believe in vows of eternal love.  As a rule, women never fail to give them credit, if they are spoken often enough and shouted out loud enough the more one despairs and declares that one is about to expire, the more the dear creatures are impressed, and the more firmly they are convinced of the power of their own charms.  But this woman does not believe in me one little bit.  Love, despair, rage—­it is all the same to her—­I might as well talk to the winds!  She only wants to get rid of me before her friend comes in, and before I break her accursed china.  Ah it is these miserable little pots and jugs that she is thinking about!  Very well, then, it is by them that I will do what I want.  A great genius can bend to small things as well as soar to large ones—­Voyons done, ma belle, which of us will be the victor!”

All this time he was gazing at her fixedly and dejectedly.

“Miss Nevill,” he said, gloomily, “I will accept your rejection; to-morrow I will say good-bye to this country for ever!”

“We are all going away this week,” said Vera, cheerfully:  “this is the end of July.  You will come back again next year, and enjoy your season as much as ever.”

“Never—­never.  Lucien D’Arblet will visit this country no more.  The words that I am about to speak to you now—­the request that I am about to make of you are like the words of a dying man; like the parting desire of one who expires.  Mademoiselle, I have a request to make of you.”

“I am sure,” began Vera, politely, “if there is anything I can do for you——­” She breathed more freely now he talked about going away and dying; it would be much better that he should so go away, and so die, than remain interminably on the rampage in Mrs. Hazeldine’s drawing-room.  Vera had stood siege for close upon an hour.  The moment of her deliverance was apparently drawing near; in the hour of victory she felt that she could afford to be generous; any little thing that he liked to ask of her she would be glad enough to do with a view to expediting his departure.  Perhaps he wanted her photograph, or a lock of her hair; to either he would be perfectly welcome.

“There is something I am forced to go away from England without having done; a solemn duty I have to leave unperformed.  Miss Nevill, will you undertake to do it for me?”

“Really, Monsieur D’Arblet, you are very mysterious; it depends, of course, upon what this duty is—­if it is very difficult, or very unpleasant.”

“It is neither difficult nor unpleasant.  It is only to give a small parcel to a gentleman who is not now in England; to give it him yourself, with your own hands.”

“That does not sound difficult, certainly,” said Vera, smiling; after all, she was glad he had not asked for a photograph, or a lock of hair; “but how am I to find this friend of yours?”