over in her mind.

She admired Frank Yeovil. He was a likable man, frank by nature as
well as name and brave, sunny in disposition and ardently devoted to
her. When the betrothal had been made at her uncle's urgent insistence
that she accept Captain Yeovil's suit, it had been a great match for
her, for the d'Aumeniers were impoverished exiles, while the Yeovils
were a rich family and of a line almost as long as her own. It had
been easy enough to plight her troth to the young Englishman at first,
but since she had seen Marteau, she realized that it would not be easy
to keep that engagement. Fortunately, Captain Yeovil had been on
service in Spain and the South of France with the Duke of Wellington's
army, and only a few weeks before had he joined her uncle and herself
in Paris on leave of absence. He had pressed her to name the day but
she had temporized and avoided the issue; not for any definite reason
but because as the time drew near she became less and less willing to
be the Englishman's wife.

Marteau had been reported killed at Arcis. Perhaps that report had
done more to enlighten her to the true state of her affections than
anything else. Her pride of birth, her rank and station would never
have permitted her, it may be, to dwell upon a living Marteau as a
possible husband, but since he was dead there could be no harm in
dreams of that kind; and in her grief she had indulged herself in them
to the full. It had been a shock to her, of course, but not so great a
shock as it would have been if an engagement had subsisted between the
two, or she had permitted herself to think that she could ever look
favorably on the proposition he had made to her. Nevertheless, it had
been a great sorrow. There were some alleviations to the situation,
however. Since it had become impossible, since she believed Marteau
dead, she could indulge her grief and her mind could dwell upon those
attractions which had influenced her so powerfully.

The period was one of intense anxiety and excitement. The old Marquis
had lived much alone. He was not versed in woman's ways. Her
agitation and grief passed unnoticed. By degrees she got control of
herself. Since it was not to be Marteau it might as well be young
Yeovil. The whole episode with which the French officer was concerned
she viewed from a point of detachment as a romantic dream. His arrival
had rudely shattered that dream and awakened her to the reality of the
sit