In a few moments the young count was leaning gracefully against the mantelpiece. He was talking with the beautiful stranger, whose name was still withheld from her visitors. A little later Monsieur Duval joined them.
“Oh, yes, I hasten to assure you, it is quite, quite old,” the count explained. He was talking of his family in Brittany.
“How far back does your family go?” went on his unknown questioner.
The count cleared his throat and choked over his fresh cup of tea.
“My friend’s family goes back to the eleventh century,” answered Duval quietly. The count was still coughing violently.
“And you are the last of your line?” continued his hostess. She was addressing the count. “It is a pity for such an illustrious race to die out. I suppose you will marry?”
She looked at the young man with such grave sweetness that he smiled uneasily and shifted his gaze.
“I hope to marry some day, Mademoiselle,” he mumbled.
“You have some very old families in Germany also, have you not?” inquired Monsieur Duval, looking searchingly at the young woman.
Did she pause a moment before she answered? Bab and Ruth both thought so.