I am not likely to become the Vicomtesse." He bestowed her a look of mingling wonder and anger.

Had he, indeed, heard her aright?
Did her words imply that she disdained the honour?
"Surely," he gasped, voicing those doubts of his, "you do not mean that you would violate your betrothal contract?
You do not--" "I mean, Monsieur," she cut in, "that I will give myself to no man I do not love." "Your immodesty," said he, "falls in nothing short of the extraordinary frame of mind that you appear to be developing in connection with other matters.

We shall have you beating a drum and screeching the Ca ira in the streets of Paris presently, like Mademoiselle de Mericourt." She rose from the table, her face very white, her hand pressing upon her corsage.

A moment she looked at him.

Then: "Do not let us talk of ourselves," she exclaimed at last.