high-backed chair close to the hearth,
the ruddy light of the wood-fire played upon her white satin gown, upon
her bare arms, and the ends of her lace scarf, upon her satin shoes and
the bunch of snowdrops at her breast, but her face was in shadow and she
did not look up at Clyffurde, whilst he--poor fool!--stood before her,
absorbed in the contemplation of this dainty picture which mayhap after
to-night would never gladden his eyes again.

"You are a great friend of M. de Marmont?" she asked after a while.

"Oh, Mademoiselle--a friend?" he replied with a self-deprecatory shrug
of the shoulders, "friendship is too great a name to give to our chance
acquaintanceship. I met Victor de Marmont less than a fortnight ago, in
Grenoble. . . ."

"Ah yes! I had forgotten--he told me that he had first met you at the
house of a M. Dumoulin . . ."

"In the shop of M. Dumoulin, Mademoiselle," broke in Clyffurde with his
good-humoured smile. "M. Dumoulin, the glovemaker, with whom I was
transacting business at the moment when M. de Marmont walked in, in
order to buy himself a pair of gloves."

"Of course," she added coldly, "I had forgotten. . . ."

"You were not likely to remember such a trivial circumstance,
Mademoiselle. M. de Marmont saw me after that here as guest in your
father's house. He was greatly surprised at finding me--a mere
tradesman--in such an honoured position. Surprise laid the foundation of
pleasing intercourse between us, but you see, Mademoiselle, that M. de
Marmont has no cause to boast of his friendship with me."

"Oh! M. de Marmont is not so prejudiced. . . ."

"As you are, Mademoiselle?" he asked quietly, for she had paused and he
saw that she bit her lips with her tiny white teeth as if she meant to
check the words that would come tumbling out.

Thus directly questioned she gave a little shrug of disdain.

"My opinions in the matter are not in question, Sir," she said coldly.

She smothered a little yawn which may have been due to ennui, but also
to the tingling of her nerves. Clyffurde saw that her hands were never
still for a moment; she was either fingering the snowdrops in her belt
or smoothing out the creases in her lace scarf; from time to time she
raised her head and a tense expression came into her face, as if she
were trying to listen to what was going on elsewhere in the
house--downstairs perhaps--in the library where she was being finally
bargained for and sold.

Clyffurde felt an in