Jeanne, the tearful but faithful maid who shared her mistress’ fortunes, by this time had done what she could to mend her lady’s appearance.  The traces of travel had been quite removed, by virtue of the contents of such valises as they had with them.  Good health and youth, as well as good courage, fought for Josephine St. Auban, as well as good sense and a philosophy of travel learned by experiences in other lands.  If indeed she had not slept, at least her face did not betray that fact.  Her color was good, her eye was clear.  Her dark hair, brushed low over the temples in the fashion of the day, was fresh and glossy.  Moreover, her habiliments were such as to cause most of the feminine occupants of the boat to make careful note, when she had accepted Carlisle’s escort and entered the dining-room.  She walked with calmness to the table reserved for her, and with inclination of the head thanked him as he arranged her chair for her.  Thus in a way the gauntlet was by both thrown down to all present.

Most of those present without hesitation showed their interest.  The hum of the dingy tables slackened and ceased.  A score of women frowned at a score of men whose glances wandered undutifully.  Who was she, and what?  That question certainly passed in the minds of most in the crowded little room.  Meantime, Josephine St. Auban’s own eyes were not unregardful.

“I see that my guess was quite correct,” she said at length, smiling full at her guardian.

At once he caught her thought.  “Oh, about Mr. Dunwody,” he assented, assuming a carelessness which she read through at once.  “Yes, I met him—­a while ago.  He told me he had suddenly decided to change his plans and take the Vernon down the river, instead of going by stage.  Very natural of him, too, I should say.  I would be much distressed to think of myself traveling by coach, even in weather pleasant as this.  He has keen eyes, though, has he not?” he added resentfully.

“That is to say—­”

“So hard hit that he threatens a duel or worse if I do not at once further his desire to pursue his acquaintance.  It’s not myself he’s so eager to meet.  He has no love for me, that’s sure, long ago.”

“Indeed?” She kept her eyes fixed on her plate.  If a slight flush tinged her cheek it scarce was visible.  “Is that all?” she asked at length.

“Madam, you yourself could best answer your own question.”  He looked at her keenly, not showing his case; not telling her that Dunwody had shown him her hasty note.  Not the flicker of an eyelash betrayed her own thought.  Surely, she had courage.  Surely, she meant trouble.

“How delightful!” she resumed at length calmly.  “Not that I weary of your company, sir; but I told you my parole was ended when we reached the boat.  Suppose, now, I should stand up here and cry out that I am being restrained of my liberty.  What would be the result?”

“I should be hung at the yard-arm instantly!  I should be lynched.  Dunwody would come in the lead, crashing over the tables.  I fear Dunwody, even bearing a rope, as we used to say—­in Virgil, was it?”