“Tropical—­balderdash,” he exploded.  “If you are not the most exasperating, unfeeling man alive—­”

“I merely wanted to know if you wished to marry Mademoiselle de St. Gre,” I interrupted.

He gave me a look of infinite tolerance.

“Have I not made it plain that I cannot live without her?” he said; “if not, I will go over it all again.”

“That will not be necessary,” I said hastily.

“The trouble may be,” he continued, “that they have already made one of their matrimonial contracts with a Granpre, a Beausejour, a Bernard.”

“Monsieur de St. Gre is a very sensible man,” I answered.  “He loves his daughter, and I doubt if he would force her to marry against her will.  Tell me, Nick,” I asked, laying my hand upon his shoulder, “do you love this girl so much that you would let nothing come between you and her?”

“I tell you, I do; and again I tell you, I do,” he replied.  He paused, suddenly glancing at my face, and added, “Why do you ask, Davy?”

I stood irresolute, now that the time had come not daring to give voice to my suspicions.  He had not spoken to me of his mother save that once, and I had no means of knowing whether his feeling for the girl might not soften his anger against her.  I have never lacked the courage to come to the point, but there was still the chance that I might be mistaken in this after all.  Would it not be best to wait until I had ascertained in some way the identity of Mrs. Clive?  And while I stood debating, Nick regarding me with a puzzled expression, Monsieur de St. Gre appeared on the gallery.

“Come, gentlemen,” he cried; “dinner awaits us.”

The dining room at Les Iles was at the corner of the house, and its windows looked out on the gallery, which was shaded at that place by dense foliage.  The room, like others in the house, seemed to reflect the decorous character of its owner.  Two St. Gre’s, indifferently painted, but rigorous and respectable, relieved the whiteness of the wall.  They were the Commissary-general and his wife.  The lattices were closed on one side, and in the deep amber light the family silver shone but dimly.  The dignity of our host, the evident ceremony of the meal,—­which was attended by three servants,—­would have awed into a modified silence at least a less irrepressible person than Nicholas Temple.  But Nick was one to carry by storm a position which another might wait to reconnoitre.  The first sensation of our host was no doubt astonishment, but he was soon laughing over a vivid account of our adventures on the keel boat.  Nick’s imitation of Xavier, and his description of Benjy’s terrors after the storm, were so perfect that I laughed quite as heartily; and Madame de St. Gre wiped her eyes and repeated continually, “Quel drole monsieur! it is thus he has entertained us since thou departed, Philippe.”

As for Mademoiselle, I began to think that Nick was not far wrong in his diagnosis.  Training may have had something to do with it.  She would not laugh, not she, but once or twice she raised her napkin to her face and coughed slightly.  For the rest, she sat demurely, with her eyes on her plate, a model of propriety.  Nick’s sufferings became more comprehensible.