at Guida.

At first the grave inquiry of her look startled Guida. She was beginning
to know that sensitive fear assailing those tortured by a secret. How
she loathed this secrecy! How guilty she now felt, where, indeed, no
guilt was! She longed to call aloud her name, her new name, from the
housetops.

The voice of Maitresse Aimable roused her. Her ponderous visitor had
made a discovery which had yet been made by no other human being. Her
own absurd romance, her ancient illusion, had taught her to know when
love lay behind another woman's face. And after her fashion, Maitresse
Aimable loved Jean Touzel as it is given to few to love.

"I was sixteen when I fell in love; you're seventeen--you," she said.
"Ah bah, so it goes!"

Guida's face crimsoned. What--how much did Maitresse Aimable know? By
what necromancy had this fat, silent fisher-wife learned the secret which
was the heart of her life, the soul of her being--which was Philip? She
was frightened, but danger made her cautious.

"Can you guess who it is?" she asked, without replying directly to the
oblique charge.

"It is not Maitre Ranulph," answered her friendly inquisitor; "it is not
that M'sieu' Detricand, the vaurien." Guida flushed with annoyance. "It
is not that farmer Blampied, with fifty vergees, all potatoes; it is not
M'sieu' Janvrin, that bat'd'lagoule of an ecrivain. Ah bah, so it goes!"