here to my own home—­to the house where my father died—­thinking that perhaps here at least I should find peace,”—­and her voice shook as with tears—­“that here, at least, the old walls might give me shelter and protection!—­but even here you followed me with your paid spy, Marius Longford—­and I have found myself surrounded by your base tools almost despite myself!  But even if you try to hound me into my grave, I will never marry you!  I would rather die a hundred times over than be your wife!”

His face flushed a dark red, and he suddenly made an though he would seize her in his arms.  She retreated swiftly.

“Do not touch me!” she said, in a low, strained voice—­“It will be the worse for you if you do!”

“The worse for me—­or for you?” he muttered fiercely,—­then regaining his composure, he burst into an angry laugh.  “Bah!  You are nothing but a woman!  You fling aside what you have, and pine for what you have not!  The old, old story!  The eternal feminine!”

She made no reply, but moved on towards the house.  “Quel ravissement de la lune!” exclaimed a deep guttural voice at this juncture, and Louis Gigue came out from the dark embrasure of the Manor’s oaken portal into the full splendour of the moonlight—­“Et la belle Mademoiselle Vancourt is ze adorable fantome of ze night!  Et milord Roxmouth ze what-you-call?—­ze gnome!—­ze shadow of ze lumiere!  Ha-ha!  C’est joli, zat little chanson of ze little rose-tree!  Ze music, c’est une inspiration de Cicely—­and ze words are not so melancolique as ze love-songs made ordinairement en Angleterre!  Oui—­oui!—­c’est joli!”

He turned his shrewd old face up to the sky, and blinked at the dim stars,—­there was a smile under his grizzled moustache.  He had interrupted the conversation between his hostess and her objectionable wooer precisely at the right moment, and he knew it.  Roxmouth’s pale face grew a shade paler, but he made a very good assumption of perfect composure, and taking out his case of cigars offered one to Gigue, who cheerfully accepted it.  Then he lit one for himself with a hand that trembled slightly.  Maryllia, pausing on the step of the porch as she was about to enter, turned her head back towards him for a moment.

“Are you staying long at Badsworth Hall?” she asked.

“About a fortnight or three weeks,”—­he answered carelessly, “Mr. Longford is doing some literary work and needs the quiet of the country—­and Sir Morton Pippitt is good enough to wish us to extend our visit.”

He smiled as he spoke.  She said nothing further, but slowly passed into the house.  Gigue at once began to walk up and down the courtyard, smoking vigorously, and talking volubly concerning the future of his pupil Cicely Bourne, and the triumph she would make some two years hence as a ‘prima donna assoluta,’ far greater than Patti ever was in her palmiest days,—­and Roxmouth was perforce compelled, out of civility, as well as immediate diplomacy, to listen to him with some show of interest.