Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. ‘Of course not,’ snapped his friend. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. He had drawn a horrid picture of the fate that awaited mademoiselle when once the populace discovered her relationship to the Valade family.
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