"The child of the Vendean—born after his death, I believe. I never saw her. But Papa remembers her; more beautiful and gracious than one can possibly imagine, he says. She went into a convent in Rome."
M. de la Roche-Guyon said nothing, and having come to the end of the path Horatia stooped to a late rose in the border. She was finding his evident ill-humour oddly disturbing.
"Let us speak of the ball on Monday—my last day," he said watching her. "How many dances will you vouchsafe me—in the cause of charity?"
And Miss Grenville, plucking the wet rose, found herself replying, to her no small amazement:
"That depends on Mr. Hungerford."
"Comment!" exclaimed the young Frenchman, stepping backwards. "Mais, juste ciel, il n'est pas votre fiancé!" His eyes blazed at her, and he had quite perceptibly paled; it was obvious that he was unaware of his lapse into his own tongue.
"Certainly not," replied Horatia with dignity. (She had been right about his eyes; they could look fury.) "But he is a very old friend and kinsman, and we always arrange to dance so many together."
Armand de la Roche-Guyon made a gesture, and smiled, quite sweetly. "I understand—mais parfaitement! Comme vous êtes femme ... adorablement femme!" He touched her hand a second, and Tristram and the Rector came down the path.
CHAPTER VIII
(1)