you. You have in you the germ of the
Riviera. You were born there."

Honora wondered if what he said were true. Was she different? She was
having a great deal of pleasure at Silverdale; even the sermon reading,
which would have bored her at home, had interested and amused her. But
was it not from the novelty of these episodes, rather than from
their special characters, that she received the stimulus? She glanced
curiously towards the Vicomte, and met his eye.

They had been walking the while, and had crossed the lawn and entered
one of the many paths which it had been Robert's pastime to cut through
the woods. And at length they came out at a rustic summer-house set
over the wooded valley. Honora, with one foot on the ground, sat on the
railing gazing over the tree-tops; the Vicomte was on the bench beside
her. His eyes sparkled and snapped, and suddenly she tingled with a
sense that the situation was not without an element of danger.

"I had a feeling about you, last night at dinner," he said; "you
reminded me of a line of Marcel Prevost, 'Cette femme ne sera pas aimee
que parmi des drames.'"

"Nonsense," said Honora; "last night at dinner you were too much
occupied with Miss Chamberlin to think of me."

"Ah, Mademoiselle, you have read me strangely if you think that. I
talked to her with my lips, yes--but it was of you I was thinking. I was
thinking that you were born to play a part in many dramas, that you have
the fatal beauty which is rare in all ages." The Vicomte bent towards
her, and his voice became caressing. "You cannot realize how beautiful
you are," he sighed.

Suddenly he seized her hand, and before she could withdraw it she had
the satisfaction of knowing the sensation of having it kissed. It was
a strange sensation indeed. And the fact that she did not tingle with
anger alone made her all the more angry. Trembling, her face burning,
she leaped down from the railing and fled into the path. And there,
seeing that he did not follow, she turned and faced him. He stood
staring at her with eyes that had not ceased to sparkle.

"How cowardly of you!" she cried.

"Ah, Mademoiselle," he answered fervently, "I would risk your anger
a thousand times to see you like that once more. I cannot help my
feelings--they were dead indeed if they did not respond to such an
inspiration. Let them plead for my pardon."

Honora felt herself melting a little. After all, there might have been
some excuse for it, and he