But, seemingly, Madame de Pavannes had something of the same
feeling towards him which I had myself; for she started at the
sound of his voice, and disengaging herself from her sister's
arms--it seemed it was her sister--shrank back from the pair.
She bowed indeed in acknowledgment of his words. But there was
little gratitude in the movement, and less warmth. I saw the
sister's face--a brilliantly beautiful face it was--brighter eyes
and lips and more lovely auburn hair I have never seen--even Kit
would have been plain and dowdy beside her--I saw it harden
strangely. A moment before, the two had been in one another's
arms. Now they stood apart, somehow chilled and disillusionised.
The shadow of the priest had fallen upon them--had come between
them.

At this crisis the fourth person present asserted himself.
Hitherto he had stood silent just within the door: a plain man,
plainly dressed, somewhat over sixty and grey-haired. He looked
disconcerted and embarrassed, and I took him for Mirepoix--
rightly as it turned out.

"I am sure," he now exclaimed, his voice trembling with anxiety,
or it might be with fear, "your ladyship will regret leaving
here! You will indeed! No harm would have happened to you.
Madame d'O does not know what she is doing, or she would not take
you away. She does not know what she is doing!" he repeated
earnestly.

"Madame d'O!" cried the beautiful Diane, her brown eyes darting
fire at the unlucky culprit, her voice full of angry disdain.