"Well, why not?" replied Camors, with the same voice and manner of
supreme indifference; and, throwing his bridle to the servant who
followed him, he passed through the gardengate, led, supported, caressed
by the trembling hand of Lescande.

The garden was small, but beautifully tended and full of rare plants.
At the end, a small villa, in the Italian style, showed its graceful
porch.

"Ah, that is pretty!" exclaimed Camors, at last.

"And you recognize my plan, Number Three, do you not?" asked Lescande,
eagerly.

"Your plan Number Three? Ah, yes, perfectly," replied Camors, absently.
"And your pretty little cousin--is she within?"

"She is there, my dear friend," answered Lescande, in a low voice--and he
pointed to the closed shutters of a large window of a balcony surmounting
the veranda. "She is there; and this is our son."

Camors let his hand pass listlessly over the child's hair. "The deuce!"
he said; "but you have not wasted time. And you are happy, my good
fellow?"

"So happy, my dear friend, that I am sometimes uneasy, for the good God
is too kind to me. It is true, though, I had to work very hard. For
instance, I passed two years in Spain--in the mountains of that infernal
country. There I built a fairy palace for the Marquis of Buena-Vista,
a great nobleman, who had seen my plan at the Exhibition and was