He drove the sentence home with another that left the listener gasping:
"For of course you will marry, you are capitally suited to one another. The mother exists no longer and M. Straz if he escaped, which is most likely, will not be able to interfere. Let me recommend you to get some rest. You will require it. For at twelve you leave Versailles with Mademoiselle de Bayard en route for England. Now go!..."
LXXVIII
P. C. Breagh and Juliette met upon the morrow in the same spot near the rose tree that had borne pink blossoms undismayed through the bitter wintry months.
"You have bestowed upon me no Christmas present, Monsieur," Juliette said to him gravely. "Now I will have you gather one of those roses and give it to me...."
He strode into the drift, mid-leg deep, and cut a bud that was upon the sheltered side next the wall.
"Be careful of the thorns, lest they prick you!" Juliette cried to him. "Do not cut your fingers! Do not get wet!"
"You shall not have this rose," he said, withholding the frozen flower, "until you have given my Christmas gift to me!"
Her blue eyes rose, brimming, to meet his.