"Sacre!" rasped Calembours, touching Davenport's elbow. "There is a man who must be, as you call it, 'smashed,' by your ward. They say he is the young duke, par dieu. I hope he will not be the fiance of mademoiselle, instead of my camarade."
The next moment Margaret, glancing for a moment that way, saw his grace, and started forward, with a frank look of pleasure beaming in her eyes.
"I would have regretted deeply missing this pleasure," she said, meeting the brother and sister half way. "You have both been so kind to me—so kind!"—with a look of deep and gentle gratitude toward his grace—"that I can scarcely express my sense and appreciation of it."
A mortal pallor had overspread the young man's face. His hand trembled as it touched hers, and his tongue trembled, too, when he essayed to speak.
"I would have known Miss Walsingham among a thousand, and yet illness and trials have robbed her even of the delicate roses she possessed. I—I think she is more frail than, perhaps, she is apt to imagine."
"Your grace is considerably changed, too. Have you been ill?"
He turned and looked imploringly at his sister, who was wringing Margaret's hand, and patting it in a very ardent manner.
"You don't deserve me to speak to you," said Lady Dora, in a vehement sotto voce. "So I'll be looking for my opera-glass down below, while you have a chat with the boy."
Away she tripped with all haste, leaving Margaret standing silent by the side of her admirer.
"Will you honor me with a word or two?" faltered his grace. "Perhaps you will not object to walking with me where there is less of a crowd."