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“I! You are not thinking of what you say, Capitaine. I! Sing after Platnowsky’s wonderful playing, and Señora Vizazona’s folk-songs in A minor!” But an impatient touch on the arm made Marguerite turn and gaze at Laurence, who, with heightened color and a toss of the head that made the diamonds in her tiara sparkle furiously, was attempting to draw her away.

“I am waiting!” she said, shortly.

“I almost waited is how Louis-Quatorze put it!” rejoined Marguerite. “This sort of thing was managed better then.” And with a nod to Captain Moray she preceded Laurence across the room.

“What an exquisite little creature!” mused Moray, as he watched her disappearing into the music-room. He drew a deep breath and made his way unobtrusively to a near-by embrasure, where the window-curtains hid him from sight. His disappointment in Laurence had been keen just now. A few words sent him before her marriage had acquainted him with as much of the facts as she cared to reveal. He saw now before his eyes the lavender paper she always used, and the downward-slanting lines of violet ink closing with this characteristic sentence: “Beggars are no choosers. They do what they must. Pity me!”