"I cannot contend against two opponents," returned Luciè; "so I may as
well give up my argument, though I still maintain its validity."

"We will call it a drawn game, then," said De Valette, laughing; "so
now, Luciè, candidly confess that you were disposed to find fault with
me, without sufficient cause."

"There is certainly no flattery in this," replied Luciè; "but I will
confess nothing,--except that I danced away my spirits last evening, and
was most melodiously disturbed afterwards, by some strolling minstrel.
Were you not annoyed by unseasonable music, Mr. Stanhope?"

"I heard music, at a late hour," he replied; "but it did not disturb me,
as I was still awake."

As he spoke, he was vexed to feel the color mount to his very temples;
and Luciè, who instantly comprehended the cause of his confusion, bent
her eyes to the ground, while her cheeks were suffused with blushes. An
embarrasing pause ensued; and De Valette, displeased at the secret
sympathy which their looks betrayed, stooped to pluck a rose, that grew
on a small bush beside him.

"What have you done, Eustace?" asked Luciè, hastily, and glad to break
the awkward silence; "you have spoiled my favorite rose-bush, which I
would not have given for all the flowers of the garden."

"It is a poor little thing," said De Valette, turning it carelessly in
his hand; "I could gather you a dozen far more beautiful, and quite as
fragrant."