saw how the small hand, once so disdainful of the balusters, now clung to the support. She saw how the pretty throat throbbed, how her bosom heaved, and how the colour left her face; and, seeing, Jeannette's own face grew grey and lined with care.
"It is a merry world," cried mademoiselle, setting the crown of roses on her pretty head, "and love is superfluous."
"So is pride, mamzelle."
Up went the small crowned head.
"Pride superfluous, Jeannette?" haughtily. "Nay, it is but proper and right for those of Ancelles."
Jeannette moistened her dry lips.
"It can be bought too dearly, mamzelle."
"I—do not understand, Jeannette. Surely you are forgetting yourself?"
The eyes were dangerous, the lips haughty, but Jeannette's love for her charge overcame the long reserve and terror of those last months.
"Mamzelle, mamzelle, listen to me! He is a good man, and he loves you well. Without him you will pine a——"
"Pine, Jeannette? Pine?" Suddenly she caught the old servant's wrists between her small, hot hands. "Jeannette," she whispered passionately, "never speak so again! Do you hear? I pine—I! Am I sad, Jeannette? Answer me! Are my spirits low?"
"N—no, mamzelle."
"Do I not work and read and play as always?"
"Y—yes, mamzelle."
"Do I ever droop?"
"No——"
"Or sigh?"
"No——"
"Or weep?"
"No——"
"Then what made you speak so, Jeannette?"
"I—I do not know, mamzelle."
Stéphanie dropped her wrist. Her eyes were burning, her cheeks flushed.
"Then never dare to speak so again," she said, and turned haughtily away.
And almost directly she burst into a gay little song; and Jeannette, standing listening, felt the slow tears of age dropping one by one down her cheeks.
In London Hugh Michelhurst shouldered his way amongst the busy throng in Piccadilly, and in the fog his thoughts turned to the old sunny garden at Ancelles. He sighed, then frowned as if such sighing displeased him. His mouth took a bitter curve as his thoughts wandered back to the last time he had stood on the little sunny paths amongst the roses, with Stéphanie at his side.
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