"Monsieur D'Arblet, pray understand that nothing but absolute necessity would have induced me to drive you home to-night," said Helen, who was trembling violently.
"You are not polite, ma belle—there is a charming franchise about you Englishwomen, however, which gives a piquancy to your conversation."
"You know very well why it is that I am obliged to speak to you alone," she interrupted, colouring hotly under his bold looks of admiration.
"Le souvenir du beau passé!" murmured the Frenchman, laughing softly. "Is that it, ma belle Hélène?"
"Monsieur," she cried, almost in tears, "pray listen to me; for pity's sake tell me what you have done with my letters—have you destroyed them?"
"Destroyed them! What, those dear letters that are so precious to my heart? Ah, madame, could you believe it of me?"
"You have kept them?" she murmured, faintly.
"Mais si, certainement, that I have kept them, every one—every single one of them," he repeated, looking at her meaningly, with a cold glitter in his black eyes.
"Not that—that one?" pleaded Helen, piteously.
"Yes—that one too—that charming and delightful letter in which you so generously offered to throw yourself upon my protection—do you remember it?"