charming as flatterers had led her to suppose.

Still Martial's conduct during the past week--and Heaven knows with
what fidelity her memory recalled each incident--was well calculated to
reassure her.

He had not, it is true, formally declared himself, but it was evident
that he was paying his addresses to her. His manner was that of the most
respectful, but the most infatuated of lovers.

Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of her maid, bringing a
large bouquet of roses which had just been sent by Martial.

She took the flowers, and while arranging them in a large Japanese vase,
she bedewed them with the first real sincere tears she had shed since
her entrance into the world.

She was so pale and sad, so unlike herself when she appeared the next
morning at breakfast, that Aunt Medea was alarmed.

Mlle. Blanche had prepared an excuse, and she uttered it in such sweet
tones that the poor lady was as much amazed as if she had witnessed a
miracle.

M. de Courtornieu was no less astonished.

"Of what new freak is this doleful face the preface?" he wondered.

He was still more alarmed when, immediately after breakfast, his
daughter asked a moment's conversation with him.