lmost imperceptibly his manner had changed. Instinctive misgivings
which had assailed her in the coach with him now resolved themselves
into assured fears. Something she could not explain had aroused her
suspicions before they reached the manor, but his words had
glossed these inward qualms, and a feeling of obligation suggested
trust, not shrinking; but, with his last words, a full light illumined
her faculties; an association of ideas revealed his intent and
performance.

"It was you, then," she said, slowly, studying him with steady,
penetrating glance.

"You!" she repeated, with such contempt that he was momentarily
disconcerted. "The man in the carriage--he was hired by you. The
driver--his face is familiar. I remember now where I saw him--in the
Shadengo Valley. He is your coachman. Your rescue was planned to
deceive me. It deceived even your man. He had not expected that. Your
reassuring me was false; the plan to change horses a trick to get me
here--"

"If you would but listen--"

"When"--her eyes ablaze--"will this farce end?"

Her words took him unawares. Not that he dreaded the betrayal of his
actual purpose. On the contrary, his reckless temper, chafing under
her unexpected obduracy, now welcomed the opportunity of discarding
the disinterested and chivalrous part he had assumed.

"When it ends in a honeymoon, _ma belle_ Constance!" he said,
swiftly.

His sudden words, removing all doubts as to his purpose, awoke such
repugnance in her that for a moment aversion was paramount to every
other feeling. Again she looked without, but only the solitude of the
fields and forests met her glance.

The remoteness of the situation gave the very boldness of his plan
feasibility. Was he not his own magistrate in his own province? Why,
then, he had thought, waste the golden moments? He had but one heed
now; a study of physical beauty, against a crimson background.

"To think of such loveliness lost in the wilderness!" he said, softly.
"The gates of art should all open to you. Why should you play to
rustic bumpkins, when the world of fashion would gladly receive you? I
am a poor prophet if you would not be a success in town. It is not
always easy to get a hearing, to procure an audience, but means could
be found. Soon your name would be on every one's lips. Your art is
fresh. The jaded world likes freshness. The cynical town runs to
artless art as an antidote to its own poison. Most of the players are
wrinkled