"I was trying to convey him back to England. He had come to France by—mistake. I had some trouble over it."
"And is he back in England?"
The rider nodded. "Safely back in Cavendish Square by now, I trust."
"Cavendish Square?" said she, surprised, for she knew London. "Then he was an English boy?"
"No, French, the son of a friend of mine, the Marquis de Flavigny, who lives with his Scotch father-in-law there. And I think I may count the child himself as a friend, if it comes to that."
"Ah, it was not for a person unknown, then, that time—or for one who had tried to do you an injury?"
"What do you mean?" asked La Vireville. And he added quickly, "Madame, I beseech you never to refer to that episode again, or I——" But here the grey stumbled badly, and he never finished his threat.
"Hold up, Rosinante!" adjured Mme. de Guéfontaine below her breath.
"You learnt this beast's name the other night, I suppose," suggested La Vireville innocently, for he had not clearly heard what name she used.
She looked up at him with dancing eyes which held a suspicion of moisture.