“Is Emile Grenat still anglomane?”

An instant before her voice was heard he had been persuading himself that the points of unlikeness between his young Aminta and this tall and stately lady of the proud reserve in her bearing flouted the resemblance.

CHAPTER V.

IN WHICH THE SHADES OF BROWNY AND MATEY ADVANCE AND RETIRE

“Emile is as anglomane as ever, and not a bit less a Frenchman,” Weyburn said, in a tone of one who muffles a shock at the heart.

“It would be the poorer compliment to us,” she rejoined.

They looked at one another; she dropped her eyelids, he looked away.

She had the grand manner by nature.  She was the woman of the girl once known.

“A soldier, is he?”

“Emile’s profession and mine are much alike, or will be.”

“A secretary?”

Her deadness of accent was not designed to carry her opinion of the post of secretary.

It brought the reply:  “We hope to be schoolmasters.”

She drew in a breath; there was a thin short voice, hardly voice, as when one of the unschooled minor feelings has been bruised.  After a while she said—­

“Does he think it a career?”

“Not brilliant.”

“He was formed for a soldier.”

“He had to go as the road led.”

“A young man renouncing ambition!”

“Considering what we can do best.”

“It signifies the taste for what he does.”

“Certainly that.”

Weyburn had senses to read the word “schoolmaster” in repetition behind her shut mouth.  He was sharply sensible of a fall.

The task with his papers occupied him.  If he had a wish, it was to sink so low in her esteem as to be spurned.  A kick would have been a refreshment.  Yet he was unashamed of the cause invoking it.  We are instruments to the touch of certain women, and made to play strange tunes.

“Mr. Cuper flourishes?”

“The school exists.  I have not been down there.  I met Mr. Shalders yesterday.  He has left the school.”

“You come up from Olmer?”

“I was at Olmer last week, Lady Ormont.”

An involuntary beam from her eyes thanked him for her title at that juncture of the dialogue.  She grew more spirited.

“Mr. Shalders has joined the Dragoons, has he?”

“The worthy man has a happy imagination.  He goes through a campaign daily.”

“It seems to one to dignify his calling.”

“I like his enthusiasm.”

The lady withdrew into her thoughts; Weyburn fell upon his work.

Mention of the military cloak of enthusiasm covering Shalders, brought the scarce credible old time to smite at his breast, in the presence of these eyes.  A ringing of her title of Lady Ormont rendered the present time the incredible.

“I can hardly understand a young Frenchman’s not entering the army,” she said.