He took a last look at his reflection, rehearsed a smile, and bade
Anselme introduce his visitor. He desired his secretary to go to
the devil, but, thinking better of it, he recalled him as he reached
the door. His cherished vanity craved expression.

"Wait!" said he. "There is a letter must be written. The King's
business may not suffer postponement - not for all the dowagers in
France. Sit down."

Babylas obeyed him. Tressan stood with his back to the open door.
His ears, strained to listen, had caught the swish of a woman's
gown. He cleared his throat, and. began to dictate:

"To Her Majesty the Queen-Regent - " He paused, and stood with
knitted brows, deep in thought. Then he ponderously repeated -
"To Her Majesty the Queen Regent - Have you got that?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Comte. 'To Her Majesty the Queen Regent.'"

There was a step, and a throat-clearing cough behind him.

"Monsieur de Tressan," said a woman's voice, a rich, melodious
voice, if haughty and arrogant of intonation.

On the instant he turned, advanced a step, and bowed.

"Your humblest servant, madame," said he, his hand upon his heart.
"This is an honour which - "