et, intoxicating scent from the narcissi,
and his gaze once more brought blushes to her cheeks. De Batz'
good-humoured laugh helped her to hide this unwonted access of
confusion.

"That was well turned, friend Armand," he said lightly; "but I assure
you, mademoiselle, that before I brought him here to-night his ideal was
a man."

"A man!" she exclaimed, with a contemptuous little pout. "Who was it?"

"I know no other name for him but that of a small, insignificant
flower--the Scarlet Pimpernel," replied de Batz.

"The Scarlet Pimpernel!" she ejaculated, dropping the flowers suddenly,
and gazing on Armand with wide, wondering eyes. "And do you know him,
monsieur?"

He was frowning despite himself, despite the delight which he felt at
sitting so close to this charming little lady, and feeling that in a
measure his presence and his personality interested her. But he felt
irritated with de Batz, and angered at what he considered the latter's
indiscretion. To him the very name of his leader was almost a sacred
one; he was one of those enthusiastic devotees who only care to name the
idol of their dreams with bated breath, and only in the ears of those
who would understand and sympathise.

Again he felt that if only he could have been alone with mademoiselle he
could have told her all about the Scarlet Pimpernel, knowing that in her
he would find a ready listener, a helping and a loving heart; but as it
was he merely replied tamely enough:

"Yes, mademoiselle, I do know him."

"You have seen him?" she queried eagerly; "spoken to him?"

"Yes."

"Oh! do tell me all about him. You know quite a number of us in France
have the greatest possible admiration for your national hero. We know,
of course, that he is an enemy of our Government--but, oh! we feel that
he is not an enemy of France because of that. We are a nation of heroes,
too, monsieur," she added with a pretty, proud toss of the head; "we can
appreciate bravery and resource, and we love the mystery that surrounds
the personality of your Scarlet Pimpernel. But since you know him,
monsieur, tell me what is he like?"

Armand was smiling again. He was yielding himself up wholly to the charm
which emanated from this young girl's entire being, from her gaiety
and her unaffectedness, her enthusiasm, and that obvious artistic
temperament which caused her to feel every sensation with superlative
keenness and thoroughness.

"What is he like?" she insisted.

"That,