The talk was all of the tumults in Paris, the hasty decrees of the Assembly, and the agitation spreading over the provinces, and the evening would have passed gloomily enough had it not been for the intrepid old Duchess, who scouted all vague alarms, and for Adrienne, who turned them into ridicule, and who had never appeared to Calvert more sparkling and charming.  It was not until the next morning that he could get a word with her alone.  He found her walking slowly up and down an allee of elms, through the leaves of which the bright September sunshine sifted down.  She nodded coolly to the young man who joined her.  All her animation and gracious air of the evening before had disappeared, and Calvert could have cursed himself that he had come upon her in this capricious mood.  But he would not put off saying what he had come so far to say, for all her changed manner, and, moreover, there would be no better time, for they were to set out for Tours again by noon.

“Madame,” he said, after an instant’s silence, during which they had paced slowly up and down together, “as you know, this is no farewell visit I have come to pay, since I do not leave France with Mr. Jefferson.  I have come because I dared to love you,” he went on, bluntly, and meeting the look of surprise, which Adrienne shot at him, squarely and steadily.  They both stopped in their walk and regarded each other, the young girl blushing slightly as she looked at Calvert’s pale face and met his steady gaze.

“I can make you no fine phrases.  Indeed, I know no words either in your tongue or mine that can express the love I feel for you,” he said, a little sadly.

“’Tis the first time I have ever known Mr. Calvert to be at a loss for French phrases,” returned Adrienne, recovering from her momentary confusion and smiling mockingly at the young man.  “You should have taken a lesson from Monsieur de Beaufort or Monsieur de St. Aulaire.”

“No doubt they have had much experience which I have missed, and could teach me much.  But I fear Beaufort could only teach me how to fail, and as for Monsieur de St. Aulaire, I have no time to go to England to find that gentleman in the retreat which he has so suddenly seen fit to seek.”  Madame de St. Andre blushed and bit her lip. “’Tis the first time I have ever told a woman I loved her,” said Calvert, “and I would rather tell her in my own blunt fashion.  If she loves me, she will know the things my heart tells her, but which my lips are too unskilled to translate.”

“Ah, we women are too wise to try to divine unspoken things; we scarce dare believe what we are told,” and the young girl laughed lightly.

“Yet I think you once paid me the compliment of saying that you believed me sincere,” said poor Calvert.

“’Tis true—­there is something about you which compels belief—­’tis your eyes, I think,” and then, throwing off the seriousness with which she had spoken, she added, jestingly:  “But in truth, sir, it is too much to ask of me to believe that I am the first woman you have ever loved.”