She was coming swiftly.  I rose to my feet before her.  I believe I should have risen in death.  And then she was standing beside me, looking up into my face.

“You must not do that,” she said, “or I will go away.”

I sat down again.  She went to the door and called, I following her with my eyes.  Lindy came with a bowl of water.

“Put it on the table,” said the Vicomtesse.

Lindy put the bowl on the table, gave us a glance, and departed silently.  The Vicomtesse began to arrange the flowers in the bowl, and I watched her, fascinated by her movements.  She did everything quickly, deftly, but this matter took an unconscionable time.  She did not so much as glance at me.  She seemed to have forgotten my presence.

“There,” she said at last, giving them a final touch.  “You are less talkative, if anything, than usual this morning, Mr. Ritchie.  You have not said good morning, you have not told me how you were—­you have not even thanked me for the roses.  One might almost believe that you are sorry to come to Les Iles.”

“One might believe anything who didn’t know, Madame la Vicomtesse.”

She put her hand to the flowers again.

“It seems a pity to pick them, even in a good cause,” she said.

She was so near me that I could have touched her.  A weakness seized me, and speech was farther away than ever.  She moved, she sat down and looked at me, and the kind of mocking smile came into her eyes that I knew was the forerunner of raillery.

“There is a statue in the gardens of Versailles which seems always about to speak, and then to think better of it.  You remind me of that statue, Mr. Ritchie.  It is the statue of Wisdom.”

What did she mean?

“Wisdom knows the limitations of its own worth, Madame,” I replied.

“It is the one particular in which I should have thought wisdom was lacking,” she said.  “You have a tongue, if you will deign to use it.  Or shall I read to you?” she added quickly, picking up a book.  “I have read to the Queen, when Madame Campan was tired.  Her Majesty poor dear lady, did me the honor to say she liked my English.”

“You have done everything, Madame,” I said.

“I have read to a Queen, to a King’s sister, but never yet—­to a King,” she said, opening the book and giving me the briefest of glances.  “You are all kings in America are you not?  What shall I read?”

“I would rather have you talk to me.”

“Very well, I will tell you how the Queen spoke English.  No, I will not do that,” she said, a swift expression of sadness passing over her face.  “I will never mock her again.  She was a good sovereign and a brave woman and I loved her.”  She was silent a moment, and I thought there was a great weariness in her voice when she spoke again.  “I have every reason to thank God when I think of the terrors I escaped, of the friends I have found.  And yet I am an unhappy woman, Mr. Ritchie.”