Mademoiselle gave no outward sign of the deep wound her pride was
receiving. The girl of nineteen, who had scorned the young
secretary-lover in the park of Bellecour that morning four years ago,
was developed into a handsome lady of three-and-twenty.

"It would be beneath the dignity of his station to soil his hands
in such a conflict as my father has suggested," she said at last.

"I wonder would it be beneath the dignity of his courage," mused the
same caustic friend. "But surely not, for nothing could be beneath
that."

"Madame!" exclaimed Suzanne, her cheeks reddening; for as of old,
and like her father, she was quickly moved to anger. "Will it please
you to remember that M. d'Ombreval is my affianced husband?"

"True," confessed the lady, no whit abashed. "But had I not been
told so I had accounted him your rejected suitor, who,
broken-hearted, gives no thought either to his own life or to yours."

In a pet, Mademoiselle gave her shoulder to the speaker and turned
away. In spite of the words with which she had defended him, Suzanne
was disappointed in her betrothed, and yet, in a way, she understood
his bearing to be the natural fruit of that indomitable pride of
which she had observed the outward signs, and for which, indeed as
much as for the beauty of his person, she had consented to become his
wife. After all, it was the outward man she knew. The marriage had
been arranged, and this was but their third meeting, whilst never for
an instant had they been alone together. By her mother she had been