"Most probably."

"And then we will persuade him. Yes, I am sure we shall do that--persuade him that he is the Marquis de Varenac."

Her voice rang proudly over those last words. But Michael Berrington was watching the face of Lord Denningham as he stood, with folded arms, surveying the little champion of Royalty, whilst she spoke her happy, confident words.

Would Morice listen if he came? And, if he came not, where was he?

Michael alone remembered--at that moment--Marcel Trouet, the astute exponent of liberty, equality, and fraternity on both sides of the Channel.

CHAPTER XX

MORRY EXPLAINS

"I had thought it too late for roses, fair mistress. Permit me to compliment you upon my mistake."

Gabrielle started, blushing, as Lord Denningham, in a morning-suit of brown cloth, embroidered with gold thread, and with rich lace ruffles at neck and wrists, stood bowing before her, having approached unseen from behind a clump of bushes.

Her curtsey was severely formal as she made her reply.

"I see no roses, sir, nor did I come to look for them, but rather to make a first acquaintance with my mother's native land."

He did not take the hint that she would prefer her own company, but turned to pace slowly down the garden path by her side.

"A bleak and doleful country," he observed, pointing to the long vista of moors stretching northwards. "No wonder its people are sour of face and surly of temper."

"You speak from experience, I doubt not?" she retorted, quickening her steps.

"Nay, this also is my first visit."

"I should have thought that you needed some strong attraction then, my lord, to remain, seeing that you find Brittany so little to your taste."

"I have found the attraction already, fair mistress."

A low bow pointed the compliment and further ruffled her temper.

But discretion bade her ignore his words.

"You have friends in Brittany, sir?" she asked, and wished that she had not come so far on a morning ramble.

"If I could count one fair lady such, I should ask no more of life," he replied, with exaggerated humility.

Again she crimsoned, not from coyness but hot anger.

"I prefer straight answers," she said coldly.

"Alas! Mistress, I should offend did I speak more plainly."

He had contrived to move a little in advance, so that he could look back into the pretty face only half concealed by the lace hood she had flung over her curls.

Her eyes certainly did not invite tender speeches.

"You mock me, my lord," she retorted, her chin tilted aggressively.

"Your purpose in coming to Brittany concerned--concerned----"

He did not attempt to help her, but watched, with insolently admiring gaze, the hotly flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

"Concerned?"

"My brother Morice."

"Indeed!"

Pa.s.sion brought her to a halt for all her haste to reach the house.

"Do you think I know _nothing_, sir, of your wicked plots?"

"You wrong me, fairest. Of what plots can I think but how to steal the citadel of your heart?"

"You may try to turn aside my thoughts with empty phrases, but I have heard of your fine Corresponding Society, and of your proposed deputation to the liberty-loving _heroes_ of Paris after their wholesale ma.s.sacre of defenceless men and women."

"Your pardon, most gracious lady. But, an' I dared, I would warn you that pretty ears are made to listen only to pretty speeches and not to harken to matters of which they know nothing."

He spoke as one might to a petulant child, so that she could have cried for very chagrin and anger.

It was bitter after the heroics of that mad journey. But she would teach him that women are to be reckoned with.

"We shall see when Morice comes," she retorted. "He will listen to his true friends, and--and his conscience."

The last words forced the smile to mocking lips. It was humorous indeed to a.s.sociate a conscience with one of the gayest young bucks of Carlton House.

What lengths the argument might have led to is uncertain. My Lord Denningham, I fear, was finding that beauty in a pa.s.sion bade fair to be irresistible, and rosy lips the more tempting in a pout, when a diversion was called by Mistress Gabrielle herself.

Wide-eyed she stood, turning from her tormentor, whilst anger died away into pleased welcome on her face.

"Morry!" she cried, and pushed past the man who would have hindered her, running lightly down the path and across a tangled stretch of neglected lawn, straight into the arms of her brother, who came at great strides to meet her.

"Gabrielle!"

"Oh, Morry! I am so glad."

He bent to kiss her with an affection that augured well for his temper, whilst she smiled up at him, half-curious, half-defiant, wondering when the scolding would begin.

Morice seemed in no hurry to commence, though he looked down doubtfully into his sister's eager face.

"Did the good fairies bring you, Gay?" he asked, giving her the pet name of long years ago, with a wistfulness she did not fail to note.