to catch fire, she opened her eyes,
raised her hand and, with two dainty fingers, had taken the burning
scrap of paper from the young man's hand. Then she blew out the flame,
and held the paper to her nostril with perfect unconcern.

"How thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew," she said gaily, "surely 'twas your
grandmother who taught you that the smell of burnt paper was a sovereign
remedy against giddiness."

She sighed with satisfaction, holding the paper tightly between her
jewelled fingers; that talisman which perhaps would save her brother
Armand's life. Sir Andrew was staring at her, too dazed for the moment
to realize what had actually happened; he had been taken so completely
by surprise, that he seemed quite unable to grasp the fact that the slip
of paper, which she held in her dainty hand, was one perhaps on which
the life of his comrade might depend.

Marguerite burst into a long, merry peal of laughter.

"Why do you stare at me like that?" she said playfully. "I assure you
I feel much better; your remedy has proved most effectual. This room is
most delightedly cool," she added, with the same perfect composure,
"and the sound of the gavotte from the ball-room is fascinating and
soothing."

She was prattling on in the most unconcerned and pleasant way, whilst
Sir Andrew, in an agony of mind, was racking his brains as to the
quickest method he could employ to get that bit of paper out of that
beautiful woman's hand. Instinctively, vague and tumultuous thoughts
rushed through his mind: he suddenly remembered her nationality, and
worst of all, recollected that horrible take anent the Marquis de St.
Cyr, which in England no one had credited, for the sake of Sir Percy, as
well as for her own.

"What? Still dreaming and staring?" she said, with a merry laugh, "you
are most ungallant, Sir Andrew; and now I come to think of it, you
seemed more startled than pleased when you saw me just now. I do
believe, after all, that it was not concern for my health, nor yet a
remedy taught you by your grandmother that caused you to burn this tiny
scrap of paper. . . . I vow it must have been your lady love's last
cruel epistle you were trying to destroy. Now confess!" she added,
playfully holding up the scrap of paper, "does this contain her final
CONGE, or a last appeal to kiss and make friends?"

"Whichever it is, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew, who was gradually
recovering his self-possession, "this little note is undoubtedl