do you start, my son,
does it seem odd to you that I should act as squire?"

"Not in the least," I assured him. "I am only astonished that she should
consent to accompany you. You say, sir, that she is a lady?"

"At least," he replied, "I am broadening your education. That in itself,
Henry, quite repays me for any trouble I may have taken--but I fear you
are putting a bad construction on it. I beg of you, do not judge me so
harshly. Launcelot himself--what am I saying?--Bayard himself, up to the
present moment, could only commend my every action."

"Even to bringing her to this house," I suggested coldly.

"Precisely," he replied. "That in itself was actuated by the highest
piece of altruism heaven has vouchsafed humanity--the regard a father has
for his son."

"Do you mean to think," I demanded angrily, "that you can bring me into
this business?"

I was still on my feet, and took a quick step toward him.

"Is it not enough to find you what you are? You've done enough to me
tonight, sir, without adding an insult."

My father nodded, quite as though he were receiving a compliment.
Seemingly still well pleased, he helped himself again to his snuff, and
dusted his fingers carefully with his lace handkerchief.

"You misunderstand me," he said gently. "My present occupation requires a
shrewder head and a steadier hand than yours."

"And a different code of morals," I added, bowing.

"Positively, my son, you are turning Puritan," he remarked. "A most
refreshing change for the family."

I had an angry retort at the tip of my tongue, but it remained unspoken.
For the second time that evening, the dining room door opened. I swung
away from the table. My father leapt to his feet, bland and obsequious. A
girl with dark hair and eyes was standing on the threshold, staring at us
curiously, holding a candle that softened the austerity of her plain
black dress. There in the half light there was a slender grace about her
that made her seem vaguely unreal. In that disordered room she seemed as
incongruous as some portrait from a house across the water, as coldly
unresponsive to her surroundings. I imagined her on the last canvas of
the gallery, bearing all the traits of the family line--the same quiet
assurance, the same confident tilt of the head, the same high forehead
and clear cut features.

Evidently a similar thought was running through my father's mind.

"Ah, Mademoiselle," he said swiftly in the French tongue, "