Morice stepped hastily forward, bowing as well as he might under the circumstances, but with a shamed flush on his cheeks.
"I thank you, Madame," he replied in French, "and a kindly Fate which—which has guided me to your doors. My name is Morice Conyers, and, if I mistake not, it was Count Jéhan, your son, who, but a few days since, announced to me that I am now Marquis de Varenac as well."
He spoke haltingly, aware that his night's lodging would be hardly earned without the aid of some lying, yet thinking—on the spur of the moment—that it was best to assume the role of frankness.
She would, in any case, know him by his title soon, and, in the meantime, he could use it now by way of introduction.
It made all the difference to the present, and Morice Conyers was not the man to look much farther than the ease of the moment.
At any rate if they scorned and loathed him to-morrow these hostesses would make him very welcome to-night.
There was no doubt of that, for, at his words, Madame's face lighted up with a smile of rare sweetness, whilst the girl, who had remained near the fire, sprang to her feet, heedless of fallen embroidery.
"Ah! Madame Maman," she cried eagerly, "it is the good English cousin."
Morice turned at the cry, looking beyond the stately figure of the elder lady towards the dainty little maiden in her white gown, with crimson ribbons knotted at breast and throat and nestling amidst the dark coils of her hair.
For all her eighteen years Cécile de Quernais looked nothing more than a child, possessing a slim, round figure, tiny, delicate features, with great black eyes which seemed almost out of proportion in that small baby-face.