"Insolent tribe," she said, without speaking, "we have no more men left to fight you; but now wait.

See what a woman can do." These thoughts ran through her mind as her eye passed from one object to another.

Something reminded her of Frowenfeld, and, with mingled defiance at her inherited enemies and amusement at the apothecary, she indulged in a quiet smile.

The smile was still there as her glance in its gradual sweep reached a small mirror.
She almost leaped from her seat.
Not because that mirror revealed a recess which she had not previously noticed; not because behind a costly desk therein sat a youngish man, reading a letter; not because he might have been observing her, for it was altogether likely that, to avoid premature interruption, he had avoided looking up; nor because this was evidently Honore Grandissime; but because Honore Grandissime, if this were he, was the same person whom she had seen only with his back turned in the pharmacy--the rider whose horse ten days ago had knocked her down, the Lieutenant of Dragoons who had unmasked and to whom she had unmasked at the ball! Fly! But where?
How?
It was too late; she had not even time to lower her veil.

M.Grandissime looked up at the glass, dropped the letter with a slight start of consternation and advanced quickly toward her.