white satin coat and filmy lace ruffles, exquisite in manners and
courtesy, entered the little boudoir, and with his long back slightly
bent, his arm outstretched in a graceful and well-studied curve, he
approached Mademoiselle Desiree Candeille.

"May I have the honour," he said with his most elaborate air of courtly
deference, "of conducting Mademoiselle to her chaise?"

In the doorway just behind him stood His Royal Highness the Prince of
Wales chatting with apparent carelessness to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and
Lord Anthony Dewhurst. A curtain beyond the open door was partially
drawn aside, disclosing one or two brilliantly dressed groups, strolling
desultorily through the further rooms.

The four persons assembled in the little boudoir had been so absorbed
by their own passionate emotions and the violence of their quarrel
that they had not noticed the approach of Sir Percy Blakeney and of his
friends. Juliette and Marguerite certainly were startled and Candeille
was evidently taken unawares. Chauvelin alone seemed quite indifferent
and stood back a little when Sir Percy advanced, in order to allow him
to pass.

But Candeille recovered quickly enough from her surprise: without
heeding Blakeney's proffered arm, she turned with all the airs of an
insulted tragedy queen towards Marguerite.

"So 'tis I," she said with affected calm, "who am to bear every insult
in a house in which I was bidden as a guest. I am turned out like some
intrusive and importunate beggar, and I, the stranger in this land, am
destined to find that amidst all these brilliant English gentlemen there
is not one man of honour.

"M. Chauvelin," she added loudly, "our beautiful country has, meseems,
deputed you to guard the honour as well as the worldly goods of your
unprotected compatriots. I call upon you, in the name of France, to
avenge the insults offered to me to-night."

She looked round defiantly from one to the other of the several faces
which were now turned towards her, but no one, for the moment, spoke or
stirred. Juliette, silent and ashamed, had taken Marguerite's hand in
hers, and was clinging to it as if wishing to draw strength of character
and firmness of purpose through the pores of the other woman's delicate
skin.

Sir Percy with backbone still bent in a sweeping curve had not relaxed
his attitude of uttermost deference. The Prince of Wales and his friends
were viewing the scene with slightly amused aloofness.

For a moment--