Both Jean and Aimable shook their heads. They had spoken no word since
his entrance.

"She--she is not dead?" he asked. They shook their heads again.

"Her grandfather"--he paused--"is he living?" Once more they shook their
heads in negation. "Where is mademoiselle?" he asked, sick at heart.

Jean looked at his wife; neither moved nor answered. "Where does she
live?" urged Philip. Still there was no motion, no reply. "You might
as well tell me." His tone was half pleading, half angry--little like a
sovereign duke, very like a man in trouble. "You must know I shall find
out from some one else, then," he continued. "But it is better for you
to tell me. I mean her no harm, and I would rather know about her from
her friends."

He took off his hat now. Something in the dignity of these two honest
folk rebuked the pride of place and spirit in him. As plainly as though
heralds had proclaimed it, he understood that these two knew the
abatements on the shield of his honour-argent, a plain point tenne, due
to him "that tells lyes to his Prince or General," and argent, a gore
sinister tenne, due for flying from his colours.

Maitresse Aimable turned and looked towards Jean, but Jean turned away
his head. Then she did not hesitate. The voice so oft eluding her will
responded readily now. Anger--plain primitive rage-possessed her. She
had had no child, but as the years had passed all the love that might
have been given to her own was bestowed upon Guida, and in that mind she
spoke.