suddenly came out on a shaded lawn dotted with flowering bushes.  There was the house with its gallery, its curved dormer roof and its belvedere; and a white, girlish figure flitted down the steps.  It was Mademoiselle Antoinette, and no sooner had her father dismounted than she threw herself into his arms.  Forgetful of my presence, he stood murmuring in her ear like a lover; and as I watched them my trouble slipped from my mind, and gave place to a vaguer regret that I had been a wanderer throughout my life.  Presently she turned up to him a face on which was written something which he could not understand.  His own stronger features reflected a vague disquiet.

“What is it, ma cherie?”

What was it indeed?  Something was in her eyes which bore a message and presentiment to me.  She dropped them, fastening in the lapel of his coat a flaunting red flower set against a shining leaf, and there was a gentle, joyous subterfuge in her answer.

“Thou pardoned Auguste, as I commanded?” she said.  They were speaking in the familiar French.

“Ha, diable! is it that which disquiets thee?” said her father.  “We will not speak of Auguste.  Dost thou know Monsieur Ritchie, ’Toinette?”

She disengaged herself and dropped me a courtesy, her eyes seeking the ground.  But she said not a word.  At that instant Madame de St. Gre herself appeared on the gallery, followed by Nick, who came down the steps with a careless self-confidence to greet the master.  Indeed, a stranger might have thought that Mr. Temple was the host, and I saw Antoinette watching him furtively with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

“I am delighted to see you at last, Monsieur,” said my cousin.  “I am Nicholas Temple, and I have been your guest for three days.”

Had Monsieur de St. Gre been other than the soul of hospitality, it would have been impossible not to welcome such a guest.  Our host had, in common with his daughter, a sense of humor.  There was a quizzical expression on his fine face as he replied, with the barest glance at Mademoiselle Antoinette:—­

“I trust you have been—­well entertained, Mr. Temple.  My daughter has been accustomed only to the society of her brother and cousins.”

“Faith, I should not have supposed it,” said Nick, instantly, a remark which caused the color to flush deeply into Mademoiselle’s face.  I looked to see Monsieur de St. Gre angry.  He tried, indeed, to be grave, but smiled irresistibly as he mounted the steps to greet his wife, who stood demurely awaiting his caress.  And in this interval Mademoiselle shot at Nick a swift and withering look as she passed him.  He returned a grimace.

“Messieurs,” said Monsieur de St. Gre, turning to us, “dinner will soon be ready—­if you will be so good as to pardon me until then.”

Nick followed Mademoiselle with his eyes until she had disappeared beyond the hall.  She did not so much as turn.  Then he took me by the arm and led me to a bench under a magnolia a little distance away, where he seated himself, and looked up at me despairingly.