a cigarette in her mouth!  I quite understand!  She couldn’t smoke,—­she wouldn’t!—­and—­ and—­I won’t!  I won’t really!  You won’t believe me, I expect,—­but I assure you, I never smoke!  I only did it this evening, because,—­ because,—­well!—­because I thought I ought to defend my own sex against your censure—­and also perhaps—­perhaps out of a little bit of bravado!  But, I’m sorry!  There!  Will you forgive me?”

Nearly, very nearly, John lost his head.  Maryllia had used the strongest weapon in all woman’s armoury,—­humility,—­and he went down before it, completely overwhelmed and conquered.  A swirl of emotion swept over him,—­his brain grew dizzy, and for a moment he saw nothing in earth or heaven but the sweet upturned face, the soft caressing eyes, the graceful yielding form clad in its diaphanous draperies of jewelled gossamer,—­then pulling himself together with a strong effort which made him well-nigh tremble, he took the small hand that lay in white confidence on his arm, and raised it to his lips with a grave, courtly, almost cold reverence.

“It is you to forgive me, Miss Vancourt!”—­he said, unsteadily.  “For I am quite aware that I committed a breach of social etiquette at your table,—­and—­and—­I know I have taken considerable liberty in speaking my mind to you as I have done.  Even as your minister I fear I have overstepped my privileges—–­”

“Oh, please don’t apologise!” said Maryllia, quickly—­“It’s all over, you know!  You’ve said your say, and I’ve said mine—­and I’m sure we both feel better for it.  Don’t we?”

John smiled, but his face was very pale, and his eyes were troubled.  He was absorbed in the problem of his own struggling emotions—­how to master them—­how to keep them back from breaking into passionate speech,—­and her bewitching, childlike air, half penitent, half mischievous, was making sad havoc of his self-possession.

“We are friends again now,”—­she went on—­“And really,—­really we must try and keep so!”

This, with a quaint little nod of emphatic decision.

“Do you think it will be difficult?” he asked, looking at her more earnestly and tenderly than he himself was aware of.

She laughed, and blushed a little.

“I don’t know!—­it may be!” she said—­“You see you’ve twice ruffled me up the wrong way!  I was very angry—­oh, very angry indeed, when you coolly stopped the service because we all came in late that Sunday,—­and to-night I was very angry again—–­”

“But I was not angry!” said John, simply—­“And it takes two to make a quarrel!”

She peeped at him from under her long lashes and again the fleeting blush swept over her fair face.

“I must go now!”—­she said—­“Won’t you come into the drawing-room?—­ just to hear Cicely sing at her very best?”

“Not to-night,”—­he answered quickly—­“If you will excuse me—–­”

“Of course I will excuse you!” and she smiled—­“I know you don’t like company.”