"Well then, I want to know . . . about that English friend of yours. . . ."
"Mr. Clyffurde, you mean?" asked Crystal. "What about him?"
"I want to know, my dear, what I ought to make of this Mr. Clyffurde."
Crystal laughed lightly, and looked up with astonished, inquiring, wide-open eyes to her aunt.
"What should you want to make of him, ma tante?" she asked, wholly unperturbed under the scrutinising gaze of Madame.
"Nothing," said the Duchesse abruptly. "I have had my answer, thank you, dear."
Evidently she had no intention of satisfying the girl's obvious curiosity, for she suddenly rose from her chair, gathered her lace shawl round her shoulders, and said with abrupt transition:
"The hour for my audience is at hand. Not one minute must I keep my august brother waiting. I can hear Hector's footsteps in the corridor, and I will not have him see me in a fluster."
Crystal looked as if she would have liked to question Madame a little more closely about her former cryptic utterance, but there was something in the sarcastic twinkle of those sharp eyes which caused the young girl to refrain from too many questions, and—very wisely—she decided to hold her peace.
Madame la Duchesse threw a quick glance into the gilt-framed mirror close by. She smoothed a stray wisp of hair which had escaped from under her lace cap: she gave a tug to her fichu and a pat to her skirts. Then, as the folding doors were once more thrown open, and Hector—stiff, solemn and pompous—appeared under the lintel, Madame threw back her head in the grand manner pertaining to the old days at Versailles.