the rider from her
steed.

Seaman, a Hungarian bay, by Xenophon and Lena Rivers, was drawn in
profile, very erect on his slender, nervous legs. He appeared, on the
side nearest the observer, to be pawing the ground impatiently with his
hoof, a movement which seemed to be facilitated by his rider, who, drawn
in a three-quarters view and extending her hand, allowed the reins to
fall over the shoulders of her pure-blooded mount.

"What do you think of it?" Zibeline inquired of General de Prerolles.

"I think you have the air of the commander of a division of cavalry,
awaiting the moment to sound the charge."

"I shall guard her well," said Zibeline, "for she would be sure to be put
to rout by your bayonets."

"Not by mine!" gallantly exclaimed Lenaieff. "I should immediately lower
my arms before her!"

"You!--perhaps! But between General de Prerolles and myself the
declaration of war is without quarter. Is it not, General?" said
Valentine, laughing.

"It is the only declaration that fate permits me to make to you,
Mademoiselle," Henri replied, rather dryly, laying emphasis on the double
sense of his words.

This rejoinder, which nothing in the playful attack had justified,
irritated the Duchess, but Valentine appeared to pay no attention to it,
and at ten o'clock, when a gypsy band began to play in the long gallery,
she arose.

"Although we are a very small party," she said, "would you not like to
indulge in a waltz, Mesdames? The gentlemen can not complain of being
crowded here," she added, with a smile.

M. de Lisieux and M. de Nointel, as well as Edmond Delorme, hastened to
throw away their cigarettes, and all made their way to the long gallery.
The Baron de Samoreau and the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy remained alone
together.

The Duchess took the occasion to speak quietly to her brother.

"I assure you that you are too hard with her," she said. "There is no
need to excuse yourself for not marrying. No one dreams of such a
thing--she no more than any one else. But she seems to have a sentiment
of friendship toward you, and I am sure that your harshness wounds her."

A more experienced woman than Madame de Montgeron, who had known only a
peaceful and legitimate love, would have quickly divined that beneath her
brother's brusque manner lurked a budding but hopeless passion, whence
sprang his intermittent revolt against the object that had inspired it.

This revolt was not only against Zibeline's fortune; i