“Mademoiselle—­”

“Mr. Molyneux, I desire to hear nothing from your companion.  Had I not seen you at cards with him I should have supposed him in attendance as your lackey.  Do you desire to take advantage of my offer, sir?”

“Mademoiselle, I could not tell you, on that night—­”

“You may inform your high-born friend, Mr. Molyneux, that I heard everything he had to say; that my pride once had the pleasure of listening to his high-born confession!”

“Ah, it is gentle to taunt one with his birth, mademoiselle?  Ah, no!  There is a man in my country who say strange things of that—­that a man is not his father, but himself.”

“You may inform your friend, Mr. Molyneux, that he had a chance to defend himself against accusation; that he said all—­”

“That I did say all I could have strength to say.  Mademoiselle, you did not see—­as it was right—­that I had been stung by a big wasp.  It was nothing, a scratch; but, mademoiselle, the sky went round and the moon dance’ on the earth.  I could not wish that big wasp to see he had stung me; so I mus’ only say what I can have strength for, and stand straight till he is gone.  Beside’, there are other rizzons.  Ah, you mus’ belief!  My Molyneux I sen’ for, and tell him all, because he show courtesy to the yo’ng Frenchman, and I can trus’ him.  I trus’ you, mademoiselle—­long ago—­and would have tol’ you ev’rything, excep’ jus’ because—­well, for the romance, the fon!  You belief?  It is so clearly so; you do belief, mademoiselle?”

She did not even look at him.  M. Beaucaire lifted his hand appealingly toward her.  “Can there be no faith in—­in—­he said timidly, and paused.  She was silent, a statue, my Lady Disdain.

“If you had not belief’ me to be an impostor; if I had never said I was Chateaurien; if I had been jus’ that Monsieur Beaucaire of the story they tol’ you, but never with the heart of a lackey, an hones’ man, a man, the man you knew, himself, could you—­would you—­” He was trying to speak firmly; yet, as he gazed upon her splendid beauty, he choked slightly, and fumbled in the lace at his throat with unsteady fingers.—­“Would you—­have let me ride by your side in the autumn moonlight?” Her glance passed by him as it might have passed by a footman or a piece of furniture.  He was dressed magnificently, a multitude of orders glittering on his breast.  Her eye took no knowledge of him.

“Mademoiselle-I have the honor to ask you:  if you had known this Beaucaire was hones’, though of peasant birth, would you—­”

Involuntarily, controlled as her icy presence was, she shuddered.  There was a moment of silence.

“Mr. Molyneux,” said Lady Mary, “in spite of your discourtesy in allowing a servant to address me, I offer you a last chance to leave this room undisgraced.  Will you give me your arm?”

“Pardon me, madam,” said Mr. Molyneux.

Beaucaire dropped into a chair with his head bent low and his arm outstretched on the table; his eyes filled slowly in spite of himself, and two tears rolled down the young man’s cheeks.