"Monsieur," said Angelique, thinking of an obstacle which might block
his way, "I am a Catholic, and you are not."

"Priests don't frighten me. And Father Olivier is too sensible an old
fellow to object to setting you in the car of my ambition."

They stood in silence.

"Good-night, Monsieur Zhone," said Angelique. "Don't wait."

"But I shall wait," said Rice.

He had bowed and turned away to the currant hedge, and Angelique was
entering her father's lawn, when he came back impetuously. He framed her
cheeks in his hands, and she could feel rather than see the power of
possession in his eyes.

"Angelique!" he said, and the word rushed through her like flame. She
recoiled, but Rice Jones was again in his father's garden, moving like a
shadow toward the house, before she stirred. Whether it was the trick of
the orator or the irrepressible outburst of passion, that appeal
continued to ring in her ears and to thrill.

More disturbed than she had ever been before by the tactics of a lover,
Angelique hurried up the back gallery steps, to find Peggy Morrison
sitting in her chamber window, cross-legged, leaning over with one palm
supporting a pointed chin. The swinging sashes were pushed outward, and
Peggy's white gown hung down from the broad sill.

"Is that you, Peggy?" said Angelique. "I thought you were dancing at
Vigo's this evening."

"I thought you were, too."

"Mama felt obliged to send our excuses, on account of going to sister's
baby."

"How beautiful these large French families are!" observed Peggy; "some
of them are always dying or teething, and the girls are slaves to their
elders."

"We must be beautiful," said Angelique, "since two of the Morrisons have
picked wives from us; and I assure you the Morrison babies give us the
most trouble."

"You might expect that. I never saw any luck go with a red-headed
Morrison."

Angelique sat down on the sill, also, leaning against the side of the
window. The garden was becoming a void of dimness, through which a few
fireflies sowed themselves. Vapor blotted such stars as they might have
seen from their perch, and the foliage of fruit trees stirred with a
whisper of wind.

"I am so glad you came to stay with me, Peggy. But you are dressed; why
did you not go?"

"I am hiding."

"What are you hiding from?"

"Jules Vigo, of course."

"Poor Jules."

"Yes, you are always saying poor this and that, after you set them on by
rejecting them. They run about