“Wait a moment.”
Harry waited to think, and scraps of his aunt’s remarks floated through his brain respecting the fair daughters of France, who would fall at the feet of the young count.
Harry cogitated. The daughters of France were no doubt very lovely, but they were imaginative: and though Madelaine Van Heldre might, as his aunt said, not be of the pure Huguenot blood, still that fact did not seem to matter to him. For that was not imagination before him, but the bright, natural, clever girl whom he had known from childhood, his old playfellow, who had always seemed to supply a something wanting in his mental organisation, the girl who had led him and influenced his career.
“Bother Aunt Marguerite!” he said to himself, and then aloud, “Come along!”
Volume One—Chapter Six.
Harry Vine Speaks Plainly; So does his Friend.
Louise and Madelaine went on down by the water’s edge, in profound ignorance of the fact that they were followed at a distance of about a couple of hundred yards.
The two friends female were then in profound ignorance of the fact that they were watched, so were the two friends male.