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“Régis? In admiration before Régis?” he queried.

“You know very well I don’t mean Régis—I mean Marguerite—your precious ‘Gamin.’ The ‘Chevalier Gamin,’ as her foolish father and you call her.”

Basil stepped nearer to her, put the tips of his fingers on her shoulders, and turned her face to the full glow of the wax lights burning in tall candelabras near by.

“What do you mean, Laurence?” he said, quietly. “Is it that you are jealous of Marguerite de Plenhöel?”

“Yes,” she admitted, attempting to shake him off, but without avail, for although he did not exert the least pressure, she knew that she could not rid herself of those well-controlled fingers which nevertheless weighed so little that she scarcely felt their touch.

“You don’t know me yet! I am jealous by temperament; jealous, of course, especially of you; of every word you speak to another, of every look, of every gesture! I can’t help it; I am built that way, I suppose.” She raised her large, resentful eyes to him so suddenly that he let go his delicate hold and remained gazing at her in helpless wonderment. Did she mean what she said? It was difficult to doubt that she was in earnest, but so ridiculous was the charge she made that his face grew grim.