For one moment Marguerite caught her husband's eye. No one was
within earshot.

"Percy," she said.

"Yes, m'dear."

"When did you return?"

"Early this morning."

"You crossed over from Calais?"

"From Boulogne."

"Why did you not let me know sooner?"

"I could not, dear. I arrived at my lodgings in town, looking a
disgusting object. ... I could not appear before you until I had washed
some of the French mud from off my person. Then His Royal
Highness demanded my presence. He wanted news of the Duchesse
de Verneuil, whom I had the honour of escorting over from France.
By the time I had told him all that he wished to hear, there was no
chance of finding you at home, and I thought I should see you here."

Marguerite said nothing for a moment, but her foot impatiently
tapped the ground, and her fingers were fidgeting with the gold fringe
of her scarf. The look of joy, of exquisite happiness, seemed to have
suddenly vanished from her face; there was a deep furrow between