tention of holding out his arms to the poor little motor maid. He went
on mending the chain, and when he got into the car beside me again he
began to talk about the weather.

CHAPTER XXV

It was ten o'clock when we came into Clermont-Ferrand, which looked a
beautiful old place in the moonlight, with the great, white Puy de Dome
floating half way up the sky, like a marble dream-palace.

I trembled for our reception at the chateau, for everything would be our
fault, from the snow on the mountains to Lady Turnour's lack of a dinner
dress; and the consciousness of our innocence would be our sole comfort.
Not for an instant did we believe that it would help our case to stop at
the railway station and arrange for the big luggage to be sent the first
thing in the morning; nevertheless, we satisfied our consciences by
doing it, though we were so hungry that everything uneatable seemed
irrelevant.

A young woman in a book, who had just pried into the depths of her soul,
and discovered there a desperate love, would have loathed the thought of
food; but evidently I am unworthy to be a heroine, for my imagination
called up visions of soup and steak; and because it seemed so extremely
important to be hungry, I could quite well put off being unhappy until
to-morrow.

It is only three miles from Clermont-Ferrand to the Chateau de
Roquemartine, and we came to it easily, without inquiries, Jack having
carefully studied the road map with Sir Samuel. He had only to stop at
the porter's lodge to make sure we were right, and then to teuf-teuf up
a long, straight avenue, sounding our musical siren as an announcement
of our arrival. It was only when I saw the fine old mansion on a
terraced plateau, its creamy stone white as pearl in the moonlight, its
rows upon rows of windows ablaze, that I remembered my position
disagreeably. I was going to stay at this charming place, as a servant,
not as a member of the house-party. I would have to eat in the servants'
hall--I, Lys d'Angely, whose family had been one of the proudest in
France. Why, the name de Roquemartine was as nothing beside ours. It had
not even been invented when ours was already old. What would my father
say if he could see his daughter arriving thus at a house which would
have been too much honoured by a visit from him? I was suddenly ashamed.
My boasted sense of humour, about which I am usually such a Pharisee,
sulked in a corner and refused to come out to my rescue,