his matter took an unconscionable time. She did not so much as
glance at me. She seemed to have forgotten my presence.

"There," she said at last, giving them a final touch. "You are less
talkative, if anything, than usual this morning, Mr. Ritchie. You have
not said good morning, you have not told me how you were--you have not
even thanked me for the roses. One might almost believe that you are
sorry to come to Les Iles."

"One might believe anything who didn't know, Madame la Vicomtesse."

She put her hand to the flowers again.

"It seems a pity to pick them, even in a good cause," she said.

She was so near me that I could have touched her. A weakness seized me,
and speech was farther away than ever. She moved, she sat down and
looked at me, and the kind of mocking smile came into her eyes that I
knew was the forerunner of raillery.

"There is a statue in the gardens of Versailles which seems always about
to speak, and then to think better of it. You remind me of that statue,
Mr. Ritchie. It is the statue of Wisdom."

What did she mean?

"Wisdom knows the limitations of its own worth, Madame," I replied.

"It is the one particular in which I should have thought wisdom was
lacking," she said. "You have a tongue, if you will deign to use it. Or
shall I read to you?" she added quickly, picking up a book. "I have read
to the Queen, when Madame Campan was tired. Her Majesty poor dear lady,
did me the honor to say she liked my English."

"You have done everything, Madame," I said.

"I have read to a Queen, to a King's sister, but never yet--to a King,"
she said, opening the book and giving me the briefest of glances. "You
are all kings in America are you not? What shall I read?"

"I would rather have you talk to me."

"Very well, I will tell you how the Queen spoke English. No, I will not
do that," she said, a swift expression of sadness passing over her face.
"I will never mock her again. She was a good sovereign and a brave woman
and I loved her." She was silent a moment, and I thought there was a
great weariness in her voice when she spoke again. "I have every reason
to thank God when I think of the terrors I escaped, of the friends I have
found. And yet I am an unhappy woman, Mr. Ritchie."

"You are unhappy when you are not doing things for others, Madame," I
suggested.

"I am a discontented woman," she said; "I always have been. And I am
unhappy when I think of all those who were dear to me and whom I