“Cousin Harriet? I’ve not seen her. Léonie, you should always wear those clothes. They suit you, ’pon my soul they do!”

“I think so too,” she sighed. “But if you tell madame she will be agitated, and she will say that it is unmaidenly. I brought the foils up.”

“Oh, we’re to fence, are we, Amazon?”

“You said you would!”

“As you will, as you will! Damme, I’d like to see Julia’s face an she knew!” He chuckled impishly.

She nodded. He had told her of Mistress Falkner already.

“I do not suppose that she would like me,” she observed. She swept a hand round, indicating the many portraits. “There are a great number of people in your family, are there not? This one is nice. He is like Monseigneur, a little.”

“Lord, child, that’s old Hugo Alastair! Devilish rakehelly fellow! They’re a damned gloomy lot, all of ’em, and everyone has a sneer on his face for all the world like Justin himself. Come and look at this one; it’s my respected parent.”

Léonie looked up into Rudolph Alastair’s dissipated countenance.

“He does not please me at all,” she said severely.

“Never pleased anyone, my dear. Here’s her Grace. She was French like yourself. Lord, did you ever see such a mouth? Fascinating, y’know, but a temper like the fiend.”

Léonie moved on to where the last picture hung. An awed look came into her eyes.

“And this is—Monseigneur.”

“It was done a year ago. Good, eh?”

The hazel eyes under their drooping lids looked mockingly down on them.

“Yes, it is good,” said Léonie. “He does not always smile just so. I think he was not in a nice humour when that was painted.”

“Fiendish, ain’t he? Striking, of course, but Lord, what a damned mask of a face! Never trust him, child, he’s a devil.”

The swift colour flooded Léonie’s cheeks.

“He is not. It is you who are a gr-r-reat stupid!”

“But it’s true, my dear. I tell you he’s Satan himself. Damme, I ought to know!” He turned just in time to see Léonie seize one of the foils. “Here! What will you be at——?” He got no further, but leaped with more speed than dignity behind a chair, for Léonie, her eyes flaming, was bearing down upon him with the rapier poised in a distinctly alarming manner. Rupert hoisted the chair, and held it to keep Léonie at arm’s length, a look of comical dismay on his face. Then, as Léonie lunged across the chair he took to his heels and fled down the gallery in laughing panic, Léonie close behind him. She drove him into a corner, where he had perforce to stay, using his chair as a protection.

“No, no! Léonie, I say! Hey, you nearly had me! The button’ll come off for a certainty! Devil take it, it’s monstrous! Put it down, you wild-cat! Put it down!”

The wrath died out of Léonie’s face. She lowered the foil.

“I wanted to kill you,” she said calmly. “I will if you say things to me like that of Monseigneur. Come out. You are cowardly!”

“I like that!” Rupert put the chair down cautiously. “Put that damned foil down, and I’ll come.”

Léonie looked at him, and suddenly began to laugh. Rupert came out of the corner, smoothing his ruffled hair.

“You looked so very funny!” gasped Léonie.

Rupert eyed her gloomily. Words failed him.

“I would like to do it again, just to see you run!”

Rupert edged away. A grin dawned.

“For the Lord’s sake don’t!” he begged.

“No, I won’t,” Léonie said obligingly. “But you are not to say those things——”

“Never again! I swear I won’t! Justin’s a saint!”

“We will fence now, and not talk any more,” said Léonie regally. “I am sorry I frightened you.”

“Pooh!” said Rupert loftily.

Her eyes twinkled.

“You were frightened! I saw your face. It was so fun——”

“That’ll do,” said Rupert. “I was taken unawares.”

“Yes, that was not well done of me,” she said. “I am sorry, but you understand I have a quick temper.”

“Yes, I understand that,” grimaced Rupert.

“It is very sad, n’est-ce pas? But I am truly sorry.”

He became her slave from that moment.

CHAPTER XVI

The Coming of the Comte de Saint-Vire

The days sped past, and still the Duke did not come. Rupert and Léonie rode, fenced, and quarrelled together like two children, while, from afar, the Merivales watched, smiling.

“My dear,” said his lordship, “she reminds me strangely of someone, but who it is I cannot for the life of me make out.”

“I don’t think I have ever seen anyone like her,” Jennifer answered. “My lord, I have just thought that ’twould be a pretty thing if she married Rupert.”

“Oh, no!” he said quickly. “She is a babe, for sure, but, faith, she’s too old for Rupert!”

“Or not old enough. All women are older than their husbands, Anthony.”

“I protest I am a staid middle-aged man!”

She touched his cheek.

“You are just a boy. I am older by far.”

He was puzzled, and a little worried.

“I like it so,” she said.

Meanwhile at Avon Léonie and her swain made merry together. Rupert taught Léonie to fish, and they spent delightful days by the stream and returned at dusk, tired and wet, and unbelievably dirty. Rupert treated Léonie as a boy, which pleased her, and he told her endless tales of Society which also pleased her. But most of all she liked him to remember scraps of recollection of his brother. To these she would listen for hours at a time, eyes sparkling, and lips parted to drink in every word.

“He is—he is grand seigneur!” she said once, proudly.

“Oh, ay, every inch of him! I’ll say that. He’ll count no cost, either. He’s devilish clever, too.” Rupert shook his head wisely. “Sometimes I think there’s nothing he don’t know. God knows how he finds things out, but he does. All pose, of course, but it’s damned awkward, I give you my word. You can’t keep a thing secret from him. And he always comes on you when you least expect him—or want him. Oh, he’s cunning, devilish cunning.”

“I think you do like him a little,” Léonie said shrewdly.

“Devil a bit. Oh, he can be pleasant enough, but it’s seldom he is! One’s proud of him, y’know, but he’s queer.”

“I wish he would come back,” sighed Léonie.

Two days later Merivale, on his way to Avon village, met them, careering wildly over the country. They reined in when they saw him and came to him. Léonie was flushed and panting, Rupert was sulky.

“He is a great stupid, this Rupert,” Léonie announced.

“She has led me a fine dance this day,” Rupert complained.

“I do not want you with me at all,” said Léonie, nose in air.

Merivale smiled upon their quarrel.

“My lady said a while ago that I was a boy, but ’fore Gad you make me feel a greybeard,” he said. “Farewell to ye both!” He rode on to the village, and there transacted his business. He stopped for a few minutes at the Avon Arms, and went into the coffee-room. In the doorway he ran into a tall gentleman who was coming out.

“Your pardon, sir,” he said, and stared in amazement. “Saint-Vire! Why, what do ye here, Comte? I’d no notion——”

Saint-Vire had started back angrily, but he bowed now, and if his tone was not cordial, at least he was polite.

“Your servant, Merivale. I had not thought to see you here.”

“Nor I you. Of all the queer places in which to meet you! What brings you here?”

Saint-Vire hesitated for a moment.

“I am on my way to visit friends,” he said, after a while. “They live—a day’s journey north of this place. My schooner is at Portsmouth.” He spread out his hands. “I am forced to break my journey to recover from a slight indisposition which attacked me en route. What would you? One does not wish to arrive souffrant at the house of a friend.”

Merivale thought the story strange, and Saint-Vire’s manner stranger still, but he was too well-bred to show incredulity.

“My dear Comte, it’s most opportune. You will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner at Merivale? I must present you to my wife.”

Again it seemed that Saint-Vire hesitated.

“Monsieur, I resume my journey to-morrow.”

“Well, ride out to Merivale this evening, Comte, I beg of you.”

Almost the Comte shrugged.

“Eh bien, m’sieur, you are very kind. I thank you.”

He came that evening to Merivale and bowed deeply over Jennifer’s hand.

“Madame, this is a great pleasure. I have long wished to meet the wife of my friend Merivale. Is it too late to felicitate, Merivale?”

Anthony laughed.

“We are four years married, Comte.”

“One has heard much of the beauty of Madame la Baronne,” Saint-Vire said.

Jennifer withdrew her hand.

“Will you be seated, monsieur? I am always glad to see my husband’s friends. For where are you bound?”

Saint-Vire waved a vague hand.

“North, madame. I go to visit my friend—er—Chalmer.”

Merivale’s brow creased.

“Chalmer? I don’t think I know——”

“He lives very much in seclusion,” explained Saint-Vire, and turned again to Jennifer. “Madame, I think I have never met you in Paris?”

“No, sir, I have not been outside mine own country. My husband goes there sometimes.”

“You should take madame,” Saint-Vire smiled. “You we see often, n’est-ce pas?”

“Not so often as of yore,” Merivale answered. “My wife has no taste for town life.”

“Ah, one understands then why you stay not long abroad these days, Merivale!”

Dinner was announced, and they went into the adjoining room. The Comte shook out his napkin.