n its every line the graceful
contour of the figure, whilst one tiny hand held, with a dignity all
its own, the tall stick adorned with a large bunch of ribbons which
fashionable ladies of the period had taken to carrying recently.

With a quick glance all around the room, Marguerite Blakeney had taken
stock of every one there. She nodded pleasantly to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
whilst extending a hand to Lord Antony.

"Hello! my Lord Tony, why--what are YOU doing here in Dover?" she said
merrily.

Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and faced the Comtesse and
Suzanne. Her whole face lighted up with additional brightness, as she
stretched out both arms towards the young girl.

"Why! if that isn't my little Suzanne over there. PARDIEU, little
citizeness, how came you to be in England? And Madame too?"

She went up effusive to them both, with not a single touch of
embarrassment in her manner or in her smile. Lord Tony and Sir Andrew
watched the little scene with eager apprehension. English though they
were, they had often been in France, and had mixed sufficiently with the
French to realise the unbending hauteur, the bitter hatred with which
the old NOBLESSE of France viewed all those who had helped to contribute
to their downfall. Armand St. Just, the brother of beautiful Lady
Blakeney--though known to hold moderate and conciliatory views--was
an ardent republican; his feud with the ancient family of St. Cyr--the
rights and wrongs of which no outsider ever knew--had culminated in the
downfall, the almost total extinction of the latter. In France, St.
Just and his party had triumphed, and here in England, face to face with
these three refugees driven from their country, flying for their lives,
bereft of all which centuries of luxury had given them, there stood a
fair scion of those same republican families which had hurled down a
throne, and uprooted an aristocracy whose origin was lost in the dim and
distant vista of bygone centuries.

She stood there before them, in all the unconscious insolence of beauty,
and stretched out her dainty hand to them, as if she would, by that one
act, bridge over the conflict and bloodshed of the past decade.

"Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman," said the Comtesse,
sternly, as she placed a restraining hand upon her daughter's arm.

She had spoken in English, so that all might hear and understand; the
two young English gentlemen was as well as the common innkeeper and