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She bent as though to embrace her cousin by marriage, but, though she could not have told how, found herself merely shaking hands with that erstwhile “dearest of all friends,” who immediately turned to Basil, uttering a commonplace compliment of congratulation.

He was beaming with happiness, and when “Antinoüs,” who had followed his daughter, added his felicitations to hers, he actually grew red with pleasure.

“Yes!” he said, exultantly, letting his wife and Marguerite pass on, and detaining “Antinoüs” by the arm. “Yes, I am a lucky dog! Look at her! Isn’t she a marvel? Wasn’t I right when I called her that long ago—and exquisite, my dear fellow, in temper, in manner—oh, in everything!”

Never had the Marquis de Plenhöel heard his kinsman express himself with so much warmth or at such length. Interested by this transformation, he glanced at the serpentine folds of Laurence’s long train, coiling and uncoiling behind her as she walked beside Marguerite, and then back at the once taciturn Basil. He had always thought his cousin a trifle too unemotional, and an amused smile showed under his blond mustache.