“Yes, Hugh, yes. The so dear Comte.”

Davenant opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again.

“Quite so,” said his Grace.

“But, Avon—” it was Marling who spoke—“Fanny tells me that cards for the ball have been sent to Saint-Vire and his wife. Why did you do that?”

“I believe I had a reason,” said his Grace pensively. “No doubt it will return to my mind some time or other.”

“If the fellow comes I’ll never be able to contain myself!” Rupert said.

“I do not imagine that he will come, my child. Hugh, if you have finished, I suggest we repair to the library. It is the only room that Fanny has left undisturbed.”

Fanny rose, and shook her finger at him.

“I shall throw it open on the night of the ball, never fear! I have a mind to set card-tables there.”

“No,” said Léonie firmly. “It is our very own room, Monseigneur. You are not to let her!” She laid her finger-tips on his crooked arm, and prepared to go out with him. Hugh heard an urgent whisper. “Monseigneur, not that room! We always sit there. You brought me to it the very first night.”

Avon turned his head.

“You hear, Fanny?”

“It’s most tiresome!” said her ladyship, in a long-suffering manner. “What odds can it make, child? What’s your reason?”

“Madam, I cannot think of the word. It is what Monseigneur says when you ask him why he does a thing?”

Rupert opened the door.

“Faith, I know what she means! A whim!”

“C’est cela!” Léonie gave a little skip. “You are very clever to-night, Rupert, I think.”

The ladies retired early to bed, and as Rupert dragged the unwilling Marling out to Vassaud’s, Avon and Hugh were left alone in the quiet library. Hugh looked round with a little smile.

“Egad, it’s like old times, Justin!”

“Three months ago, to be precise,” said his Grace. “I am becoming something of a patriarch, my dear.”

“Are you?” Davenant said, and smiled to himself. “May I compliment you on your ward?”

“Pray do! You find her to your taste?”

“Infinitely. Paris will be enchanted. She is an original.”

“Something of a rogue,” conceded his Grace.

“Justin, what has Saint-Vire to do with her?”

The thin brows rose.

“I seem to remember, my dear, that your curiosity was always one of the things I deplored in you.”

“I’ve not forgot the tale you told me—in this very room, Justin. Is Léonie the tool with which you hope to crush Saint-Vire?”

His Grace yawned.

“You fatigue me, Hugh. Do you know, I have ever had a fancy to play my game—alone.”

Davenant could make nothing of him, and gave up the attempt. Marling came in presently, and remarked that Rupert was not like to return until the morning.

“Who was there?” Davenant asked.

“The rooms were crowded, but I know so few people,” Marling said. “I left Rupert dicing with one Lavoulčre.” He looked at the Duke. “The lad’s incorrigible, Avon. He will dice his soul away one of these days.”

“Oh, I trust not!” said Avon. “I suppose he is losing?”

“He is,” Marling replied. “It is not my affair, Justin, but I think you should strive to check this gambling fever in him.”

“I agree,” Davenant said. “The boy is too thoughtless.”

Avon strolled to the door.

“Beloved, I leave you to your moralities,” he said softly, and went out.

Hugh laughed, but Marling frowned.

“Impossible Satanas!” said Hugh.

“He seems not to trouble his head over Rupert’s welfare.” Marling spoke heavily. “He should have some hold over the boy.”

“Oh, my dear Marling, Rupert will come to heel whenever Avon chooses to lift his finger.”

“It’s very well, Hugh, but I have yet to see him lift it.”

“I have seen it,” Davenant answered. He drew his chair nearer to the fire. “I see also a vast change in our Satanas.”

“Ay,” Marling admitted. “It’s the child’s influence. My lady dreams of a bridal.”

“I would it might be so,” Hugh crossed his legs. “There is that in Avon’s eyes when he looks on Léonie——”

“I do not trust him.”

“Why, I think I do for once.” Hugh laughed a little.

“When last I saw Léonie—Léon she was then—it was ‘Yes, Monseigneur’ and ‘No, Monseigneur.’ Now it is ‘Monseigneur, you must do this’ and ‘Monseigneur, I want that!’ She twists him round her little finger, and, by Gad, he likes it!”

“Oh, but there’s naught of the lover in his manner, Hugh! You have heard him with her, scolding, correcting.”

“Ay, and I have heard the note in his voice of—faith, of tenderness! This wooing will be no ordinary one, methinks, but there is a bridal in the air.”

“She is twenty years behind him!”

“Do you think it signifies? I would not give Justin a bride his own age. I’d give him this babe who must be cherished and guarded. And I’ll swear he’d guard her well!”

“It may be. I do not know. She looks up to him, Davenant! She worships him!”

“Therein I see his salvation,” Hugh said.

CHAPTER XXV

Léonie Curtsies to the Polite World

Lady Fanny stepped back to obtain a better view of her handiwork.

“I cannot make up my mind,” she said. “Shall I put a riband in your hair, or—no, I have it!—a single white rose!” She picked one up from the table at her side. “You can well spare it from your corsage, my dear. Where is the little buckle Justin gave you?”

Léonie, seated before the mirror, held out the pearl and diamond ornament. My lady proceeded to fasten the rose with it above Léonie’s left ear, so that it nestled amongst the powdered curls that were skilfully arranged to resemble a coiffure. The friseur had worked wonders. The curls clustered thickly about the queenly little head, and just one had been coaxed to fall to the shoulder.

“It could not be better!” said my lady. “Give me the haresfoot, wench!”

Léonie’s maid handed it to her, and stood ready with the various pots.

“Just a touch of rouge, I think,” said Fanny. “The veriest suspicion—so! The lip-stick, girl! . . . Keep still, my love; I must not overdo it. There! Powder, girl!” The haresfoot fluttered over Léonie’s face. My lady studied the effect intently. “It’s very well. Now for the patches! Two, I think. Don’t wriggle, child!” Expert fingers pressed the patches on: one below the dimple, one above the cheekbone. “Famous!” cried my lady. “Mercy, look at the time! I must hurry! Stand up, Léonie, and you, girl, hand me the dress!”

Léonie stood up in her under-dress of lace, ruffle upon ruffle of it falling over a great hoop to her ankles, and watched my lady shake out the folds of soft white brocade. Fanny flung it deftly over her head, so that not a hair was disturbed, pulled it over the hoop, twitched it into place, and told the maid to lace it up. Léonie’s feet peeped from beneath the lace petticoat in shoes of white satin with heels that were studded with tiny diamonds. Buckles flashed on them—yet another present from Avon. Léonie pointed her toe, and regarded the effect gravely.

Fanny came to arrange a lace fichu about Léonie’s shoulders. Out of the lace they rose, sloping and very white. Fanny shook out the ruffles, tied the ribbons, and fastened the two other roses into place over the knot with a pearl pin.

“Why, madame, what is that?” asked Léonie quickly. “It is not mine, I know!”

Fanny kissed her lightly.

“Oh, it is naught but a trifle, my love, that I had a mind to give you! I beg you will not heed it!”

Léonie flushed.

“Madame, you are very good to me! Thank you!”

Someone scratched on the door; the abigail went to open it, and came back into the room with a small silver tray, on which were two packages, and white roses in a silver holder.

“For mademoiselle,” smiled the maid.

Léonie ran forward.

“For me? Who sent them?” She bent over the tray to read the cards. “Rupert—M. Marling—M. Davenant! But how they are kind! Why do you all give me presents, madame?”

“My sweet, ’tis your first appearance. I suspect Hugh asked Justin what flowers he should send.” She picked up the bouquet. “See, child, the holder is so cunningly wrought! What says the card?”

Léonie held it between her fingers.

“‘To Léon, from Hugh Davenant.’ Voyons, I am not Léon to-night, but Mademoiselle de Bonnard! What can this be?—from M. Marling—oh, the little ring! Madame, look!” She slipped the wrappings from the last package, and disclosed a fan of delicately painted chicken-skin mounted on ivory sticks. “Oh, this clever Rupert! Madame, how did he know I wanted a fan?”

Fanny shook her head mysteriously.

“La, child, don’t ask me! Stop skipping round the room, stupid! Where are Justin’s pearls?”

“Oh, the pearls!” Léonie ran to the dressing-table, and extracted the long, milky string from one of the boxes there.

Fanny twisted it twice round her neck, cast another distracted glance at the clock, sprinkled scent on to a handkerchief, and over Léonie, gave a last twitch to the brocade gown, and hurried to the door.

“You will be so late!” Léonie cried. “All because you dressed me. I will wait for you, madame, shall I?”

“Yes, child, of course! I want to be there when Jus—when they see you. Come and sit with me while I finish my toilette.”

But Léonie was in no mood to sit still. She paraded in front of the mirror, curtsied to herself, fluttered her fan, and sniffed at her roses.

Rachel worked swiftly to-night, and soon my lady stood up in a gown of rose silk, with a petticoat of silver lace, and the most enormous hoop Léonie had ever seen. My lady whisked the haresfoot across her face again, slipped bracelets on to her arms, and fixed nodding feathers into her marvellous coiffure.