herself
and which in Aline she had found so disconcertingly indelicate. She even
borrowed several of Aline's phrases.

The result was that on the Monday afternoon when at last M. de La Tour
d'Azyr's returning berline drove up to the chateau, he was met by M. le
Comte de Sautron who desired a word with him even before he changed.

"Gervais, you're a fool," was the excellent opening made by M. le Comte.

"Charles, you give me no news," answered M. le Marquis. "Of what
particular folly do you take the trouble to complain?"

He flung himself wearily upon a sofa, and his long graceful body
sprawling there he looked up at his friend with a tired smile on that
nobly handsome pale face that seemed to defy the onslaught of age.

"Of your last. This Binet girl."

"That! Pooh! An incident; hardly a folly."

"A folly--at such a time," Sautron insisted. The Marquis looked a
question. The Count answered it. "Aline," said he, pregnantly. "She
knows. How she knows I can't tell you, but she knows, and she is deeply
offended."

The smile perished on the Marquis' face. He gathered himself up.

"Offended?" said he, and his voice was anxious.

"But yes. You know what she is. You know the ideals she has formed. It
wounds her that at such a time--whilst you are here for the purpose of
wooing her--you should at the same time be pursuing this affair with that
chit of a Binet girl."

"How do you know?" asked La Tour d'Azyr.

"She has confided in her aunt. And the poor child seems to have some
reason. She says she will not tolerate that you should come to kiss her
hand with lips that are still contaminated from... Oh, you understand.
You appreciate the impression of such a thing upon a pure, sensitive
girl such as Aline. She said--I had better tell you--that the next
time you kiss her hand, she will call for water and wash it in your
presence."

The Marquis' face flamed scarlet. He rose. Knowing his violent,
intolerant spirit, M. de Sautron was prepared for an outburst. But no
outburst came. The Marquis turned away from him, and paced slowly to
the window, his head bowed, his hands behind his back. Halted there he
spoke, without turning, his voice was at once scornful and wistful.

"You are right, Charles, I am a fool--a wicked fool! I have just enough
sense left to perceive it. It is the way I have lived, I suppose. I have
never known the need to deny myself anything I wanted." Then suddenly he
swung round, and the outburst cam