"What sort of things, M. le Baron?"

He gave a little laugh. It was so strange a thing to him to be sincere
that he felt awkward and abashed. He was surprised at his own sincerity.

"That I love you--hum. You have known it long?"

The face which he could not see was not quite the face of a good woman.
Etta was smiling.

"No--o," she almost whispered.

"I think you must have known it," he corrected suavely. "Will you do me
the honor of becoming my wife?"

It was very correctly done, Claude de Chauxville had regained control
over himself. He was able to think about the riches which were evidently
hers. But through the thought he loved the woman.

The lady lowered the feather screen which she was holding between her
face and the fire. Regardless of the imminent danger in which she was
placing her complexion, she studied the glowing cinders for some
moments, weighing something or some persons in her mind.

"No, my friend," she answered in French, at length.

The baron's face was drawn and white. Beneath his trim black mustache
there was a momentary gleam of sharp white teeth as he bit his lip.

He came nearer to her, leaning one hand on the back of her chair,