air that crowned her head. In her left hand she
carried an enormous bouquet of white camellias. On its middle finger a
diamond of great price drew almost at once by its effulgence the eyes of
all.

Her father sprang to meet her with an unusual display of paternal
tenderness. "At last, my child!"

He conducted her to the table. She sank into a chair, a little wearily,
a little nervelessly, but the smile did not leave her face, not even
when she glanced across at Scaramouche. It was only Leandre, observing
her closely, with hungry, scowling stare, who detected something as of
fear in the hazel eyes momentarily seen between the fluttering of her
lids.

Andre-Louis, however, still went on eating stolidly, without so much as
a look in her direction. Gradually the company came to realize that
just as surely as a scene was brooding, just so surely would there be no
scene as long as they remained. It was Polichinelle, at last, who
gave the signal by rising and withdrawing, and within two minutes none
remained in the room but M. Binet, his daughter, and Andre-Louis. And
then, at last, Andre-Louis set down knife and fork, washed his throat
with a draught of Burgundy, and sat back in his chair to consider
Climene.

"I trust," said he, "that you had a pleasant ride, mademoiselle."

"Most pleasant, monsieur." Impudently she strove to emulate his
coolness, but did not completely succeed.

"And not unprofitable, if I may judge that jewel at this distance.
It should be worth at least a couple of hundred louis, and that is a
formidable sum even to so wealthy a nobleman as M. de La Tour d'Azyr.
Would it be impertinent in one who has had some notion of becoming your
husband, to ask you, mademoiselle, what you have given him in return?"

M. Binet uttered a gross laugh, a queer mixture of cynicism and
contempt.

"I have given nothing," said Climene, indignantly.

"Ah! Then the jewel is in the nature of a payment in advance."

"My God, man, you're not decent!" M. Binet protested.

"Decent?" Andre-Louis' smouldering eyes turned to discharge upon M.
Binet such a fulmination of contempt that the old scoundrel shifted
uncomfortably in his chair. "Did you mention decency, Binet? Almost
you make me lose my temper, which is a thing that I detest above all
others!" Slowly his glance returned to Climene, who sat with elbows on
the table, her chin cupped in her palms, regarding him with something
between scorn and defiance. "Mademoiselle