“Touch!” cried the Vicomte, laughing.  “You see, I am frank with you.  We marry for money, yes, but we do not make a god of it.  It is our servant.  You make it, and we enjoy it.  Yes, and you, Mademoiselle—­you, too, were made to enjoy.  You do not belong here,” he said, with a disdainful sweep of the arm.  “Ah, I have solved you.  You have in you the germ of the Riviera.  You were born there.”

Honora wondered if what he said were true.  Was she different?  She was having a great deal of pleasure at Silverdale; even the sermon reading, which would have bored her at home, had interested and amused her.  But was it not from the novelty of these episodes, rather than from their special characters, that she received the stimulus?  She glanced curiously towards the Vicomte, and met his eye.

They had been walking the while, and had crossed the lawn and entered one of the many paths which it had been Robert’s pastime to cut through the woods.  And at length they came out at a rustic summer-house set over the wooded valley.  Honora, with one foot on the ground, sat on the railing gazing over the tree-tops; the Vicomte was on the bench beside her.  His eyes sparkled and snapped, and suddenly she tingled with a sense that the situation was not without an element of danger.

“I had a feeling about you, last night at dinner,” he said; “you reminded me of a line of Marcel Prevost, ’Cette femme ne sera pas aimee que parmi des drames.’”

“Nonsense,” said Honora; “last night at dinner you were too much occupied with Miss Chamberlin to think of me.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle, you have read me strangely if you think that.  I talked to her with my lips, yes—­but it was of you I was thinking.  I was thinking that you were born to play a part in many dramas, that you have the fatal beauty which is rare in all ages.”  The Vicomte bent towards her, and his voice became caressing.  “You cannot realize how beautiful you are,” he sighed.

Suddenly he seized her hand, and before she could withdraw it she had the satisfaction of knowing the sensation of having it kissed.  It was a strange sensation indeed.  And the fact that she did not tingle with anger alone made her all the more angry.  Trembling, her face burning, she leaped down from the railing and fled into the path.  And there, seeing that he did not follow, she turned and faced him.  He stood staring at her with eyes that had not ceased to sparkle.

“How cowardly of you!” she cried.

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” he answered fervently, “I would risk your anger a thousand times to see you like that once more.  I cannot help my feelings—­they were dead indeed if they did not respond to such an inspiration.  Let them plead for my pardon.”

Honora felt herself melting a little.  After all, there might have been some excuse for it, and he made love divinely.  When he had caught up with her, his contriteness was such that she was willing to believe he had not meant to insult her.  And then, he was a Frenchman.  As a proof of his versatility, if not of his good faith, he talked of neutral matters on the way back to the house, with the charming ease and lightness that was the gift of his race and class.  On the borders of the wood they encountered the Robert Holts, walking with their children.