ll," he interrupted, hotly, "you'll speak
of her as my wife."

Amazement smothered her anger. Her pallor deepened. "My God!" she said,
and looked at him in horror. And in horror she asked him presently: "You
are married--married to that--?"

"Not yet. But I shall be, soon. And let me tell you that this girl whom
you visit with your ignorant contempt is as good and pure as you are,
Aline. She has wit and talent which have placed her where she is and
shall carry her a deal farther. And she has the womanliness to be guided
by natural instincts in the selection of her mate."

She was trembling with passion. She tugged the cord.

"You will descend this instant!" she told him fiercely. "That you should
dare to make a comparison between me and that..."

"And my wife-to-be," he interrupted, before she could speak the infamous
word. He opened the door for himself without waiting for the footman,
and leapt down. "My compliments," said he, furiously, "to the assassin
you are to marry." He slammed the door. "Drive on," he bade the
coachman.

The carriage rolled away up the Faubourg Gigan, leaving him standing
where he had alighted, quivering with rage. Gradually, as he walked back
to the inn, his anger cooled. Gradually, as he cooled, he perceived her
point of view, and in the end forgave her. It was not her fault that she
thought as she thought. Her rearing had been such as to make her look
upon every actress as a trull, just as it had qualified her calmly
to consider the monstrous marriage of convenience into which she was
invited.

He got back to the inn to find the company at table. Silence fell when
he entered, so suddenly that of necessity it must be supposed he was
himself the subject of the conversation. Harlequin and Columbine had
spread the tale of this prince in disguise caught up into the chariot
of a princess and carried off by her; and it was a tale that had lost
nothing in the telling.

Climene had been silent and thoughtful, pondering what Columbine had
called this romance of hers. Clearly her Scaramouche must be vastly
other than he had hitherto appeared, or else that great lady and he
would never have used such familiarity with each other. Imagining him
no better than he was, Climene had made him her own. And now she was to
receive the reward of disinterested affection.

Even old Binet's secret hostility towards Andre-Louis melted before
this astounding revelation. He had pinched his daughter's ear quit