no carved ceiling could be so
beautiful as the star-strewn sky above. I omitted nothing. I laid the
whole situation before her. When I had finished, she was very white and
very quiet.

"And now that you have told me all this," she asked, after a long
silence, "does it remain for me to make my choice? Even now I do not see
my way at all clearly. My relations do not want me. Monsieur Feurgeres
has left me some money. Cannot I choose for myself how I shall spend my
life?"

"I am afraid," I answered, "that you may not. For my part I am bound to
say, Isobel, that I think Monsieur Feurgeres was right. The letter of
which I have told you, and which I found in my room, was written only a
few hours before his death. At such a time a man sees clearly. You are
not only yourself the Princess Isobel of Waldenburg, but you have a
grandfather who has never recovered the loss of your mother and of you.
It was not his fault or by his wish that you were sent away from
Waldenburg. He has been deceived all the time by your aunt the
Archduchess. I think that it is your duty to go to him."

"You will come with me?" she murmured anxiously.

"I shall not leave you," I answered slowly, "until you are in his
charge. But afterwards----"

"Well?" she interrupted anxiously.

"Afterwards," I said, firmly keeping my eyes away from her and bracing
myself for the effort, "our ways must lie apart, Isobel. You are the
daughter of one of Europe's great families, you have a future which is
almost a destiny. You must fulfil your obligations."

I saw the look in her face, and my heart ached for her. I leaned forward
in my chair.

"Dear child," I said, "remember that this is what your mother would have
wished. Monsieur Feurgeres believed this before he died, and I think
that no one else could tell so well what she would have desired for you.
Just now it may seem a little hard to go amongst strangers, to begin
life all over again at your age. But, after all, we must believe that it
is the right thing."

Her face was turned away from me, but I could see that her cheeks were
pale and her lips trembling. She said nothing, I fancied because she
dared not trust her voice. Above the tops of the trees the yellow moon
was slowly rising; from a few yards away came all the varied clatter of
the Boulevard. And around us little groups and couples of people were
gay--gay with the invincible, imperishable gaiety of the Frenchman who
dines. The white-aproned wai