CHAPTER XIII.
When Detricand left the Vier Marchi he made his way along the Rue d'Egypte to the house of M.de Mauprat.

The front door was open, and a nice savour of boiling fruit came from within.

He knocked, and instantly Guida appeared, her sleeves rolled back to her elbows, her fingers stained with the rich red of the blackberries on the fire.
A curious shade of disappointment came into her face when she saw who it was.

It was clear to Detricand that she expected some one else; it was also clear that his coming gave no especial pleasure to her, though she looked at him with interest.

She had thought of him more than once since that day when the famous letter from France to the chevalier was read.
She had instinctively compared him, this roystering, notorious fellow, with Philip d'Avranche, Philip the brave, the ambitious, the conquering.
She was sure that Philip had never over-drunk himself in his life; and now, looking into the face of Detricand, she could tell that he had been drinking again.