sufficiently recovered to answer him composedly, and with a little glint
of demure humour in her eyes. She loved another man; she did not care so
much as a spark for this happy, swearing, swashbuckling gentleman; yet
she saw he had meant to do her honour. He had treated her as courteously
as was in him to do; he chose her out from all the ladies of his
acquaintance to make her an honest offer of his hand--he had said nothing
about his heart; he would, should she marry him, throw her scraps of
good-humour, bearish tenderness, drink to her health among his fellows,
and respect and admire her--even exalt her almost to the rank of a man
in his own eyes; and he had the tolerance of the open-hearted and open-
handed man. All these things were as much a compliment to her as though
she were not a despised Huguenot, an exiled lady of no fortune. She
looked at him a moment with an almost solemn intensity, so that he
shifted his ground uneasily, but at once smiled encouragingly, to relieve
her embarrassment at the unexpected honour done her. She had remained
standing; now, as he made a step towards her, she sank down upon the
seat, and waved him back courteously.

"A moment, Monsieur of Rozel," she ventured. "Did my father send you to
me?"

He inclined his head and smiled again.

"Did you say to him what you have said to me?" she asked, not quite
without a touch of malice.

"I left out about the colour in the cheek," he answered, with a smirk at
what he took to be the quickness of his wit.

"You kept your paint-pot for me," she replied softly.