"For you, Aurora," she said.

Aurora with apologies tore open the envelope and read, her brow clouding.

"I hope it's nothing serious," said Patricia, sweetly sympathetic.

Aurora rose hurriedly. "I don't know," she said dubiously, and then reading: "'Aunt Jane sick, motor over this evening if possible.' There's no signature. I suppose I'll have to go." Her lip protruded childishly.

"How tiresome!"

"It's very inconsiderate of her, isn't it?" said Patricia. The look of incomprehension still lingered on the young girl's face.

"I can't see what she wants of me," she murmured.

"Perhaps she's seriously ill," Patricia volunteered.

"Perhaps--yes, I must go, of course. But how can I?"

"Mortimer," Patricia provided the cue.

"I'll drive you, Aurora," said Crabb.

"And Louis?"

DeLaunay made no sign.

"I will take care of the Monsieur DeLaunay, dear. Do you think you could trust me?"

Aurora's lips said, "Of course," but her eyes winked rapidly several times as she adapted her mind to the situation.

The decision reached, DeLaunay stepped forward.

"If you wish that I should go----"

"Quite unnecessary," put in Patricia, quickly. "If your aunt Jane is sick, Aurora----"

Aurora hung in the wind a regretful moment.

"Oh, yes--he'd be in the way. I'll leave him with you, Patty. Please don't flirt any more than you can help."

"My dear child," said Patty, with solemn conviction, "since poor, foolish Freddy Winthrop, engaged men are _taboo_. Besides, to-night I have other plans. I would not flirt if you could animate the Apollo Belvedere. As Mortimer so chastely puts it, 'me for the downy at 10 G.

M.' Monsieur will doubtless practice pool-shots or play a game of Napoleon."

"Oh, yes," said the Frenchman, with a calmness which scarcely concealed the note of derision.

But Aurora, after one long look in his direction, had vanished to don motor clothing, and when she came down, Mortimer Crabb with his quivering car awaited her in the drive. Patricia and the Baron waved them good-by from the porch and then went indoors to the subtle effulgence of the drawing room. Patricia walked to the mantel, turned her back to the fire and stretched her shapely arms along its shelf, facing her guest with level gaze and a smile which was something between a taunt and a caress. DeLaunay inhaled luxuriously the smoke of his cigarette and appraised his hostess through the half-closed eyes of the artist searching for a "motif." She was puzzling--this woman--like the vagrant color in a landscape in the afternoon sunlight, which shimmered one moment in the sun and in the next was lost in shadowy mystery--not the mystery of the solemn hills, but the playful mystery of the woodland brook which laughs mockingly from secret places. Her eyes were laughing at him. He felt it, though none of the physical symbols of laughter were offered in evidence.

"I'm so sorry, Monsieur," she began in French. "It is _such_ a pity.

There is no excuse for any one to have a sick aunt when the stage is set for sentiment. I had planned your evening so carefully, too----"

"You are the soul of kindness, Madame," he said politely, still studying her.

"Yes," she went on, slowly, "I think I am. But then I am _chez moi_, and charity, you know, begins at home."

"I hope you will not call it charity. Charity they say is cold. And you, Madame, whatever you would seek to express, are not cold."

"How can you know?"

"Your eyes----"

"My _beaux yeux_ again." She shrugged her shoulders, and turned toward the door. "It is time, I think, for you to practice pool-shots."

"Ah, you are cruel!" He stepped before her and held out protesting hands. "I do not care for pool, Madame."

"Or Napoleon?"

"No--I wish to talk with you. Please!"

She paused, appraising him sideways.

"I have some letters to write," she said, briefly.

"Please, Madame." He stood before her, his slender figure gracefully bent, motioning appealingly toward the deep davenport, which was set invitingly in front of the fire. She followed his gesture with her eyes, then with a light laugh pa.s.sed before him and sat down.

"Nothing about my _beaux yeux_ then," she mocked.

He glanced at her with a smile which showed his fine teeth and sank beside her and at a distance.

"_Voila_, Madame! You see? I am an angel of discretion."

She smiled approvingly. "I'm glad we understand each other."

"Do we?" he asked with a suggestion of effrontery.

"I hope so."

"I'm not so sure. To me you are still a mystery."

"Am I? That's curious. I've tried to make my meaning plain. Perhaps I can make it clearer. For some weeks you have been making love to me, Monsieur. I don't like it. I never flirt, except with the very ancient or the very youthful," she said mendaciously. "You don't come within my age limits."

He laughed gayly.

"Love is of all ages and no ages. I am both ancient and youthful. Old in hope, young in despair--in affairs of the heart, I a.s.sure you, a veritable babe in the arms. I have never really loved--until now."

"Why do you marry Aurora then?" she put in.

He looked at her with a puzzled brow, then laughed merrily. "Madame, you are too clever to waste your time in America." But as Patricia was looking very gravely into the fire, he too relapsed into silence, and frowned at the ash of his cigarette.

"I do not see, Madame, why we should speak of her," he said, sulkily. "It must be clear to you that our understanding is complete. The marriages in my country, as you know----"