“No, she is not married,” said Mrs. Temple, stooping over the jasmines.  Then she straightened and faced me, her voice shaken with earnestness.  “David, do you think that Nick still loves her?”

Alas, I could not answer that.  She bent over the jasmines again.

“There were five years that I knew nothing,” she continued.  “I did not dare ask Mr. Clark, who comes to me on business, as you know.  It was Mr. Clark who brought back Lindy on one of his trips to Charleston.  And then, one day in March of this year, Madame de Montmery came.”

“Madame de Montmery?” I repeated.

“It is a strange story,” said Mrs. Temple.  “Lindy had never admitted any one, save Mr. Clark.  One day early in the spring, when I was trimming my roses by the wall there, the girl ran to me and said that a lady wished to see me.  Why had she let her in?  Lindy did not know, she could not refuse her.  Had the lady demanded admittance?  Lindy thought that I would like to see her.  David, it was a providential weakness, or curiosity, that prompted me to go into the front room, and then I saw why Lindy had opened the door to her.  Who she is or what she is I do not know to this day.  Who am I now that I should inquire?  I know that she is a lady, that she has exquisite manners, that I feel now that I cannot live without her.  She comes every week, sometimes twice, she brings me little delicacies, new seeds for my garden.  But, best of all, she brings me herself, and I am always counting the days until she comes again.  Yes, and I always fear that she, too, will be taken away from me.”

I had not heard the sound of voices, but Mrs. Temple turned, startled, and looked towards the house.  I followed her glance, and suddenly I knew that my heart was beating.

CHAPTER VI

MADAME LA VICOMTESSE

Hesitating on the step, a lady stood in the vine-covered doorway, a study in black and white in a frame of pink roses.  The sash at her waist, the lace mantilla that clung about her throat, the deftly coiled hair with its sheen of the night waters—­these in black.  The simple gown—­a tribute to the art of her countrywomen—­in white.

Mrs. Temple had gone forward to meet her, but I stood staring, marvelling, forgetful, in the path.  They were talking, they were coming towards me, and I heard Mrs. Temple pronounce my name and hers—­Madame de Montmery.  I bowed, she courtesied.  There was a baffling light in the lady’s brown eyes when I dared to glance at them, and a smile playing around her mouth.  Was there no word in the two languages to find its way to my lips?  Mrs. Temple laid her hand on my arm.

“David is not what one might call a ladies’ man, Madame,” she said.

The lady laughed.

“Isn’t he?” she said.

“I am sure you will frighten him with your wit,” answered Mrs. Temple, smiling.  “He is worth sparing.”