ment for such a career--it must be so
much more comfortable to spend one's life in making money--buying and
selling things and so on--rather than to risk it every day for the
barren honour of serving one's king and country."

"As you say, Mademoiselle," he said quite imperturbably, "given the
right temperament, it certainly is much more comfortable."

"And you, Sir, I take it, are the happy possessor of such a
temperament."

"I suppose so, Mademoiselle."

"You are content to buy and to sell and to make money? to rest at ease
and let the men who love their country and their king fight for you and
for their ideals?"

Her voice had suddenly become trenchant and hard, her manner
contemptuous--at strange variance with the indifferent kindliness
wherewith she had hitherto seemed to regard her father's English guest.
Certainly her nerves--he thought--were very much on edge, and no doubt
his own always unruffled calm--the combined product of temperament,
nationality and education--had an irritating effect upon her. Had he not
been so intensely sorry for her, he would have resented this final taunt
of hers--an arrow shot this time with intent to wound.

But as it was he merely said with a smile:

"Surely, Mademoiselle, my contentment with my own lot, and any other
feelings of which I may be possessed, are of such very little
consequence--seeing that they are only the feelings of a very
commonplace tradesman--that they are not worthy of being discussed."

Then as quickly her manner changed: the contemptuous look vanished from
her eyes, the sarcastic curl from her lips, and with one of those quick
transitions of mood which were perhaps the principal charm of Crystal de
Cambray's personality, she looked up at Bobby with a winning smile and
an appeal for forgiveness.

"Your pardon, Sir," she said softly. "I was shrewish and ill-tempered,
and deserve a severe lesson in courtesy. I did not mean to be
disagreeable," she added with a little sigh, "but my nerves are all
a-quiver to-day and this awful news has weighed upon my spirit. . . ."

"What awful news, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Surely you have heard?"

"You mean the news about Napoleon . . . ?"

"I mean the awful certainty," she retorted with a sudden outburst of
vehemence, "that that brigand, that usurper, that scourge of mankind has
escaped from an all too lenient prison where he should never have been
confined, seeing how easy was escape from it. I mean that all