"When did your words fail to do me good?" asked Maurice. "Do you think I have forgotten our long arguments in Paris, when I was in a state of such deep dejection, and you roused me and spurred me on to action by your buoyant, active, hopeful spirit? But go on."
"I want to speak of your cousin, Mademoiselle de Gramont."
Maurice expressed by his looks how welcome that theme ever was.
"You ardently desire," continued Ronald, "for so my mother has told me, to know who Mademoiselle Madeleine loves."
"Yes, I desire it more than words can utter."
"I think I can tell you," returned Ronald.
"You? You are not in earnest?" cried Maurice, in amazement. "For the love of Heaven, Ronald, do not sport with such a subject!"
"I do not jest, Maurice. I only tell you what you ought yourself to have discovered long ago."
"How could I? There is no possible clew. Madeleine sees no one, writes to no one, whom I could conceive to be the man whom she prefers."
"Easily explained," continued Ronald. "That man does not know he is beloved by her."