"But he was intimate with you. He joined an insurrection;—you were more prudent. You did not injure him, though you may have benefited yourself. Why should he shun you?"
"The conspirators forgive none who do not conspire; besides, to speak frankly, he thought I injured him."
"Could you not conciliate him through his wife—whom—you resigned to him?"
"She is dead—died before he left the country."
"Oh, that is unlucky! Still I think an advertisement might do good. Allow me to reflect on that subject. Shall we now join Madame la Marquise?"
On re-entering the drawing-room, the gentlemen found Beatrice in full dress, seated by the fire, and reading so intently that she did not remark them enter.
"What so interests you, ma sœur?-the last novel by Balzac, no doubt?"
Beatrice started, and, looking up, showed eyes that were full of tears. "Oh, no! no picture of miserable, vicious Parisian life. This is beautiful; there is soul here."
Randal took up the book which the Marchesa laid down; it was the same that had charmed the circle at Hazeldean—charmed the innocent and fresh-hearted—charmed now the wearied and tempted votaress of the world.
"Hum," murmured Randal; "the Parson, was right. This is power—a sort of a power."