He had not yet positively declared his love, but Agatha felt from his manner that she had to expect a declaration, and she consequently altered her own; she became less familiar with him, she avoided all opportunities of being alone with him; she still called him by his Christian name, for she had always done so; she was still kind and attentive to him, for he was a guest in her father’s house; but Adolphe felt that she was altered, and he became angry and moody; he thought that she was coquetting and that he was slighted; and without much notice to any one, he left the house.

Agatha was glad that he was gone; she wished to spare him the humiliation of a refusal; she understood his character well, and felt that the wound inflicted on his self-love, by being rejected, would be more painful to him than his actual disappointment; she knew that Adolphe would not die for love, but she also knew that he would not quietly bear the fancied slight of unreturned affection.  If, by her conduct, she could induce him to change his own, to drop the lover, and be to her again simply her brother’s friend, all might yet be well; but if he persevered and declared his love, she felt that there would be a quarrel, not only between him and her, but between him and Henri.

To tell the truth, Henri had rather fostered his friend’s passion for Agatha.  He had wished to see them married; and, though he had not exactly told his friend as much, he had said so much that both Agatha and Denot knew what his wishes were.  This, of course, gave great encouragement to the lover, but it greatly grieved poor Agatha; and now that Adolphe was gone, she made up her mind to open her heart to her brother.

A day or two before the revolt of St. Florent, they were sitting together in the drawing-room; it was late in the evening, the old Marquis had retired for the night, and Marie de Lescure was engaged elsewhere, so that Agatha and her brother were left alone together.  He was reading, but she was sitting gazing at the fire.  She could hardly summon up courage to say, even to her dear brother, what she wished to say.

“Henri,” she said at last, “does Adolphe return here from Fleury?” (Fleury was the name of Denot’s house).

“I hope he will,” said Henri; “but what makes you ask? the place is dull without him, isn’t it?”

“Dull! you don’t find Marie dull, do you, Henri?”

“Oh, Marie!” said he, laughing, “Marie amuses our father, and she charms me; but. you might find the house dull, in spite of Marie—­eh, Agatha?”

“Indeed no, Henri; the house was not dull even when you were in Paris, and Marie was at Clisson, and papa and I were alone together here; it was not my being dull made me ask whether Adolphe was to return.”

“But you wouldn’t be sorry that he should come back, Agatha?  You don’t want to banish poor Adolphe from Durbelliere, I hope?”

“No,” said Agatha, doubtfully, “no, I don’t want to banish him—­of course, Henri, I can’t want to banish your friend from the house; but—­”