"Chauvelin. . .my friend. . ." said Marguerite, with a pretty
little sigh of satisfaction. "I am mightily pleased to see you."
No doubt poor Marguerite St. Just, lonely in the midst of her
grandeur, and of her starchy friends, was happy to see a face that
brought back memories of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned--a
queen--over the intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu. She did
not notice the sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered round the
thin lips of Chauvelin.
"But tell me," she added merrily, "what in the world, or whom
in the world, are you doing here in England?"
"I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady," he said.
"What of yourself?"
"Oh, I?" she said, with a shrug of the shoulders. "Je m'ennuie,
mon ami, that is all."
They had reached the porch of "The Fisherman's Rest," but
Marguerite seemed loth to go within. The evening air was lovely after
the storm, and she had found a friend who exhaled the breath of Paris,
who knew Armand well, who could talk of all the merry, brilliant
friends whom she had left behind. So she lingered on under the pretty
porch, while through the gaily-lighted dormer-window of the
coffee-room sounds of laughter, of calls for "Sally" and for beer, of
tapping of mugs, and clinking of dice, mingled with Sir Percy
Blakeney's inane and mirthless laugh.
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