in a bad temper; and De Relzieres said something that annoyed me."
"Then it wasn't about me; and if it wasn't about me, it wasn't really worth while fighting," said Germaine in a tone of acute disappointment.
The mocking light deepened a little in the Duke's eyes.
"Yes. But if I had been killed, everybody would have said, 'The Duke of Charmerace has been killed in a duel about Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin.' That would have sounded very fine indeed," said the Duke; and a touch of mockery had crept into his voice.
"Now, don't begin trying to annoy me again," said Germaine pettishly.
"The last thing I should dream of, my dear girl," said the Duke, smiling.
"And De Relzieres? Is he wounded?" said Germaine.
"Poor dear De Relzieres: he won't be out of bed for the next six months," said the Duke; and he laughed lightly and gaily.
"Good gracious!" cried Germaine.
"It will do poor dear De Relzieres a world of good. He has a touch of enteritis; and for enteritis there is nothing like rest," said the Duke.
Sonia was not getting on very quickly with the wedding-cards. Germaine was sitting with her back to her; and over her shoulder Sonia could watch the face of the Duke—an extraordinarily mobile face, changing with every passing mood. Sometimes his eyes met hers; and hers fell before them. But as soon as they turned away from her she was watching him again, almost greedily, as if she could not see enough of his face in which strength of will and purpose was mingled with a faint, ironic scepticism, and tempered by a fine air of race.
He finished his tea; then he took a morocco case from his pocket, and said to Germaine, "It must be quite three days since I gave you anything."
He opened the case, disclosed a pearl pendant, and handed it to her.
"Oh, how nice!" she cried, taking it.
She took it from the case, saying that it was a beauty. She showed it to Sonia; then she put it on and stood before a mirror admiring the effect. To tell the truth, the effect was not entirely desirable. The pearls did not improve the look of her rather coarse brown skin; and her skin added nothing to the beauty of the pearls. Sonia saw this, and so did the Duke. He looked at Sonia's white throat. She met his eyes and blushed. She knew that the same thought was in both their minds; the pearls would have looked infinitely better there.
Germaine finished admiring herself; she was incapable even of suspecting that so expensive a pendant could not suit her perfectly.
The Duke said idly: "Goodness! Are all those invitations to the wedding?"
"That's only down to the letter V," said Germaine proudly.
"And there are twenty-five letters in the alphabet! You must be inviting the whole world. You'll have to have the Madeleine enlarged. It won't hold them all. There isn't a church in Paris that will," said the Duke.
"Won't it be a splendid marriage!" said Germaine. "There'll be something like a crush. There are sure to be accidents."
"If I were you, I should have careful arrangements made," said the Duke.
"Oh, let people look after themselves. They'll remember it better if they're crushed a little," said Germaine.
There was a flicker of contemptuous wonder in the Duke's eyes. But he only shrugged his shoulders, and turning to Sonia, said, "Will you be an angel and play me a little Grieg, Mademoiselle Kritchnoff? I heard you playing yesterday. No one plays Grieg like you."
"Excuse me, Jacques, but Mademoiselle Kritchnoff has her work to do," said Germaine tartly.
"Five minutes' interval—just a morsel of Grieg, I beg," said the Duke, with an irresistible smile.
"All right," said Germaine grudgingly. "But I've something important to talk to you about."
"By Jove! So have I. I was forgetting. I've the last photograph I took of you and Mademoiselle Sonia." Germaine frowned and shrugged her shoulders. "With your light frocks in the open air, you look like two big flowers," said the Duke.
"You call that important!" cried Germaine.
"It's very important—like all trifles," said the Duke, smiling. "Look! isn't it nice?" And he took a photograph from his pocket, and held it out to her.
"Nice? It's shocking! We're making the most appalling faces," said Germaine, looking at the photograph in his hand.
"Well, perhaps you ARE making faces," said the Duke seriously, considering the photograph with grave earnestness. "But they're not appalling faces—not by any means. You shall be judge, Mademoiselle Sonia. The faces—well, we won't talk about the faces—but the outlines. Look at the movement of your scarf." And he handed the photograph to Sonia.
"Jacques!" said Germaine impatiently.
"Oh, yes, you've something important to tell me. What is it?" said the Duke, with an air of resignation; and he took the photograph from Sonia and put it carefully back in his pocket.
"Victoire has telephoned from Paris to say that we've had a paper-knife and a Louis Seize inkstand given us," said Germaine.
"Hurrah!" cried the Duke in a sudden shout that made them both jump.
"And a pearl necklace," said Germaine.
"Hurrah!" cried the Duke.
"You're perfectly childish," said Germaine pettishly. "I tell you we've been given a paper-knife, and you shout 'hurrah!' I say we've been given a pearl necklace, and you shout 'hurrah!' You can't have the slightest sense of values."
"I beg your pardon. This pearl necklace is from one of your father's friends, isn't it?" said the Duke.
"Yes; why?" said Germaine.
"But the inkstand and the paper-knife must be from the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and well on the shabby side?" said the Duke.
"Yes; well?"
"Well then, my dear girl, what are you complaining about? They balance; the equilibrium is restored. You can't have everything," said the Duke; and he laughed mischievously.
Germaine flushed, and bit her lip; her eyes sparkled.
"You don't care a rap about me," she said stormily.
"But I find you adorable," said the Duke.
"You keep annoying me," said Germaine pettishly. "And you do it on purpose. I think it's in very bad taste. I shall end by taking a dislike to you—I know I shall."
"Wait till we're married for that, my dear girl," said the Duke; and he laughed again, with a blithe, boyish cheerfulness, which deepened the angry flush in Germaine's cheeks.
"Can't you be serious about anything?" she cried.
"I am the most serious man in Europe," said the Duke.
Germaine went to the window and stared out of it sulkily.
The Duke walked up and down the hall, looking at the pictures of some of his ancestors—somewhat grotesque persons—with humorous appreciation. Between addressing the envelopes
