Once they went out to Chantilly, the cameo-like chateau that stands mirrored in its waters, and wandered through the alleys there.  Honora had left her parasol on the parapet, and as they returned Peter went to get it, while she awaited him at a little distance.  A group was chatting gayly on the lawn, and one of them, a middle-aged, well-dressed man hailed him with an air of fellowship, and Peter stopped for a moment’s talk.

“We were speaking of ambassadors the other day,” he said when he joined her; “that was our own, Minturn.”

“We were speaking of them nearly a month ago,” she said.

“A month ago!  I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed.

“What did he say to you?” Honora inquired presently.

“He was abusing me for not letting him know I was in Paris.”

“Peter, you ought to have let him know!”

“I didn’t come over here to see the ambassador,” answered Peter, gayly.

She talked less than usual on their drive homeward, but he did not seem to notice the fact.  Dusk was already lurking in the courtyards and byways of the quiet quarter when the porter let them in, and the stone stairway of the old hotel was almost in darkness.  The sitting-room, with its yellow, hangings snugly drawn and its pervading but soft light, was a grateful change.  And while she was gone to—­remove her veil and hat, Peter looked around it.

It was redolent of her.  A high vase of remarkable beauty, filled with white roses, stood on the gueridon.  He went forward and touched it, and closed his eyes as though in pain.  When he opened them he saw her standing in the archway.

She had taken off her coat, and was in a simple white muslin gown, with a black belt—­a costume that had become habitual.  Her age was thirty.  The tragedy and the gravity of her life during these later years had touched her with something that before was lacking.  In the street, in the galleries, people had turned to look at her; not with impudent stares.  She caught attention, aroused imagination.  Once, the year before, she had had a strange experience with a well-known painter, who, in an impulsive note, had admitted following her home and bribing the concierge.  He craved a few sittings.  Her expression now, as she looked at Peter, was graver than usual.

“You must not come to-morrow,” she said.

“I thought we were going to Versailles again,” he replied in surprise.  “I have made the arrangements.”

“I have changed my mind.  I’m not going.”

“You want to postpone it?” he asked.

She took a chair beside the little blaze in the fireplace.

“Sit down, Peter.  I wish to say something to you.  I have been wishing to do so for some time.”

“Do you object if I stand a moment?” he said.  “I feel so much more comfortable standing, especially when I am going to be scolded.”

“Yes,” she admitted, “I am going to scold you.  Your conscience has warned you.”