Part 31 (1/2)

”Most probably.”

”And then we will persuade him. Yes, I am sure we shall do that--persuade him that he is the Marquis de Varenac.”

Her voice rang proudly over those last words. But Michael Berrington was watching the face of Lord Denningham as he stood, with folded arms, surveying the little champion of Royalty, whilst she spoke her happy, confident words.

Would Morice listen if he came? And, if he came not, where was he?

Michael alone remembered--at that moment--Marcel Trouet, the astute exponent of liberty, equality, and fraternity on both sides of the Channel.

CHAPTER XX

MORRY EXPLAINS

”I had thought it too late for roses, fair mistress. Permit me to compliment you upon my mistake.”

Gabrielle started, blus.h.i.+ng, as Lord Denningham, in a morning-suit of brown cloth, embroidered with gold thread, and with rich lace ruffles at neck and wrists, stood bowing before her, having approached unseen from behind a clump of bushes.

Her curtsey was severely formal as she made her reply.

”I see no roses, sir, nor did I come to look for them, but rather to make a first acquaintance with my mother's native land.”

He did not take the hint that she would prefer her own company, but turned to pace slowly down the garden path by her side.

”A bleak and doleful country,” he observed, pointing to the long vista of moors stretching northwards. ”No wonder its people are sour of face and surly of temper.”

”You speak from experience, I doubt not?” she retorted, quickening her steps.

”Nay, this also is my first visit.”

”I should have thought that you needed some strong attraction then, my lord, to remain, seeing that you find Brittany so little to your taste.”

”I have found the attraction already, fair mistress.”

A low bow pointed the compliment and further ruffled her temper.

But discretion bade her ignore his words.

”You have friends in Brittany, sir?” she asked, and wished that she had not come so far on a morning ramble.

”If I could count one fair lady such, I should ask no more of life,” he replied, with exaggerated humility.

Again she crimsoned, not from coyness but hot anger.

”I prefer straight answers,” she said coldly.

”Alas! Mistress, I should offend did I speak more plainly.”

He had contrived to move a little in advance, so that he could look back into the pretty face only half concealed by the lace hood she had flung over her curls.