Standing by the hearth, one foot on the stone kerb, one elbow leaning
lightly on the overmantel, she proceeded leisurely to remove her
gloves.

The Seneschal observed her with eyes that held an odd mixture of
furtiveness and admiration, his fingers - plump, indolent-looking
stumps - plucking at his beard.

"Did you but know, Marquise, with what joy, with what a - "

"I will imagine it, whatever it may be," she broke in, with that
brusque arrogance that marked her bearing. "The time for flowers
of rhetoric is not now. There is trouble coming, man; trouble,
dire trouble."

Up went the Seneschal's brows; his eyes grew wider.

"Trouble?" quoth he. And, having opened his mouth to give exit to
that single word, open he left it.

She laughed lazily, her lip curling, her face twisting oddly, and
mechanically she began to draw on again the glove she had drawn off.

"By your face I see how well you understand me," she sneered. "The
trouble concerns Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye."

"From Paris - does it come from Court?" His voice was sunk.

She nodded. "You are a miracle of intuition today, Tressan."