Florian hastily noted these things as he ran laughing to his wife.

"Heart's dearest--!" he cried. And he saw, perplexed, that Adelaide had
risen with a faint wordless cry, and was gazing at him as though she
were puzzled and alarmed a very little.

"Such an adventure as I have to tell you of!" says Florian then.

"But, hey, young man, who are you that would seem to know my daughter so
well?" demands the lady in middle life, and she rose majestically from
her chess-game.

Florian stared, as he well might. "Your daughter, madame! But certainly
you are not Dame Melicent."

At this the old, old woman raised her nodding head. "Dame Melicent? And
was it I you were seeking, sir?"

Now Florian looked from one to the other of these incomprehensible
strangers, bewildered: and his eyes came back to his lovely wife, and his
lips smiled irresolutely. "Is this some jest to punish me, my dear?"

But then a new and graver trouble kindled in his face, and his eyes
narrowed, for there was something odd about his wife also.

"I have been drinking in queer company," he said. "It must be that my
head is not yet clear. Now certainly it seems to me that you are Adelaide
de la Foret, and certainly it seems to me that you are not Adelaide."

The girl replied, "Why, no, messire; I am Sylvie de Nointel."