l so much that you would let nothing come between you and her?"

"I tell you, I do; and again I tell you, I do," he replied. He paused,
suddenly glancing at my face, and added, "Why do you ask, Davy?"

I stood irresolute, now that the time had come not daring to give voice
to my suspicions. He had not spoken to me of his mother save that once,
and I had no means of knowing whether his feeling for the girl might not
soften his anger against her. I have never lacked the courage to come
to the point, but there was still the chance that I might be mistaken in
this after all. Would it not be best to wait until I had ascertained in
some way the identity of Mrs. Clive? And while I stood debating, Nick
regarding me with a puzzled expression, Monsieur de St. Gre appeared on
the gallery.

"Come, gentlemen," he cried; "dinner awaits us."

The dining room at Les Iles was at the corner of the house, and its
windows looked out on the gallery, which was shaded at that place by
dense foliage. The room, like others in the house, seemed to reflect the
decorous character of its owner. Two St. Gre's, indifferently painted,
but rigorous and respectable, relieved the whiteness of the wall. They
were the Commissary-general and his wife. The lattices were closed on
one side, and in the deep amber light the family silver shone but dimly.
The dignity of our host, the evident ceremony of the meal,--which was
attended by three servants,--would have awed into a modified silence at
least a less irrepressible person than Nicholas Temple. But Nick was one
to carry by storm a position which another might wait to reconnoitre.
The first sensation of our host was no doubt astonishment, but he was
soon laughing over a vivid account of our adventures on the keel boat.
Nick's imitation of Xavier, and his description of Benjy's terrors after
the storm, were so perfect that I laughed quite as heartily; and
Madame de St. Gre wiped her eyes and repeated continually, "Quel
drole monsieur! it is thus he has entertained us since thou departed,
Philippe."

As for Mademoiselle, I began to think that Nick was not far wrong in his
diagnosis. Training may have had something to do with it. She would not
laugh, not she, but once or twice she raised her napkin to her face and
coughed slightly. For the rest, she sat demurely, with her eyes on
her plate, a model of propriety. Nick's sufferings became more
comprehensible.

To give the devil his due, Nick had an innate t