"I think it is a love-song." She had pinned some mignonette, strong scented as autumn mignonette is, in the front of her muslin dress, and the heavy heads had dragged the stems to one side.

She put the flowers in order, slowly, and then bent her head to enjoy the scent of them.
"It scarcely sounds like one," she said, in a low and inquiring voice.
The Marquis was a little deaf.

"Is it all chance then ?" "Oh yes," he answered, and as he spoke without lowering his voice she played softly on the old piano the simple melody of his song.

"It is all chance, mademoiselle.

Did they not teach you that at the school at Saintes ?" But she was not in a humour to join in his ready laughter.