"I never spoke to her there--I simply admired her from the plank. Come,
take me inside, and present me!"

"It is impossible," persisted de Fronsac; "I tell you I will not
venture near her any more. Also, she is coming out--that is her coupe
that you see waiting."

She came out as he spoke, and, affecting not to recognise him, moved
rapidly towards the carriage. But this would not do for Pitou at all.
"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, sweeping his hat nearly to the pavement.

"Yes, well?" she said sharply, turning.

"I have just begged my friend de Fronsac to present me to you, and he
feared you might not pardon his presumption. May I implore you to
pardon mine?"

She smiled. There was the instant in which neither the man nor the
woman knows who will speak next, nor what is to be said--the instant on
which destinies hang. Pitou seized it.

"Mademoiselle, I returned to France only this evening. All the journey
my thought was--to see you as soon as I arrived!"

"Your friend," she said, with a scornful glance towards de Fronsac, who
sauntered gracefully away, "would warn you that you are rash."

"I am not afraid of his warning."

"Are you not afraid of _me_?"