d out of the window to smoke.

When she came in he did not hear her until she spoke.

"Don't throw your cigarette away, monsieur; I permit you to
smoke--indeed, I command it. How do you do?" This in very timid
English. "I mean--good-morning--oh, dear, this terrible English
language! Now you may sit there, in that large leather arm-chair,
and you may tell me why you did not appear at breakfast. Is
Monsieur Grahame still sleeping? Gone? Oh, dear! And you have
been to the Chateau de Nesville? Is my father well? And contented?
There, I knew he would miss me. Did you give him my dearest love?
Thank you for remembering. Now tell me--"

"What?" laughed Jack.

"Everything, of course."

"Everything?"

She looked at him, but did not answer.

Then he deliberately sat down and made love to her, not actual,
open, unblushing love--but he started in to win her, and what his
tongue refused to tell, his eyes told until trepidation seized
her, and she sat back speechless, watching him with shy blue eyes
that always turned when they met his, but always returned when
his were lowered.

It is a pretty game, this first preliminary of love--like the
graceful sword-play and salute of two swordsmen before a duel.
There was no one to cry "Garde a vous!" no one to strike up the
weapons that were thrust at two unarmoured hearts, for the
weapons were words and glances, and Love, the umpire, alas! was
not impartial.

So the timid heart of Lorraine was threatened, and, before she
knew it, the invasion had begun. She did not repel it with
desperation; at times, even, she smiled at the invader, and that,
if not utter treachery, was giving aid and encouragement to the
enemy.

Besieged, threatened, she sat there in the arm-chair, half
frightened, half smiling, fearful yet contented, alarmed yet
secure, now resisting, now letting herself drift on, until the
result of the combination made Jack's head spin; and he felt
resentful in his heart, and he said to himself what all men under
such circumstances say to themselves--"Coquetry!"

One moment he was sure she loved him, the next he was certain she
did not. This oscillation between heaven and hell made him
unhappy, and, manlike, he thought the fault was hers. This is the
foundation for man's belief in the coquetry of women.

As for Lorraine, she thrilled with a gentle fear that was the
most delightful sensation she had ever known. She looked shyly at
the strong-limbed, sunburned young fel