born under some unlucky star that she should have to know and associate with such creatures?  Calvert had only met her the night before, and already he had seen her twice with a man whose very presence was contaminating.  ’Twas almost with the fear of finding some visible sign of that debasing influence upon the fair face beside him that he turned and looked at Madame de St. Andre.  It would have been impossible for anyone to have looked more innocently charming.  The court beauty was in eclipse, and in her place was a radiant, gracious young girl.  Perhaps it was the short, fur-trimmed dress she wore and the small cap with its tuft of heron plumes, a fashion lately set by the Princess de Lamballe, which gave her that childish air.  Or, more possibly, it was the unaccustomed look of embarrassment upon her face and a half-laughing petulance as of a naughty child caught in mischief.

“Good-day, Monsieur l’Americain,” she said, gayly, smiling into the serious face Calvert turned toward her.  “Will you forgive me for pressing you into service in so offhand a manner?—­but perhaps you were looking for me?”

“No, Madame,” returned Calvert, calmly, as they skated slowly toward the Quai des Tuileries, “but ’tis a pleasure to be of service to you.”

A cloud gathered on Madame de St. Andre’s brow at this honest and somewhat uncomplimentary reply, but suddenly the humor of the situation seemed to strike her and she burst out laughing.

“Are you always so truthful, Monsieur Calvert, and do American ladies absolve you from making pretty speeches?  If so, I warn you you must change or you will not succeed with the ladies of Louis’s court.”

“Ah, Madame!  I am no courtier—­nor, indeed, do I care to be,” said Calvert, quietly.

“Worse and worse!” cried Madame de St. Andre, still laughing.  “But even though you disclaim all effort to find me, or wish to be agreeable when found, yet I will still confess that you arrived most opportunely.  Monsieur de St. Aulaire grows fatiguing,” she went on, with a pettish shrug of her shoulders.  “He is as prodigal of compliments as you are chary of them.”

Calvert looked at the young girl beside him.

“He dares to compliment you!  A compliment from Monsieur de St. Aulaire can be nothing less than an insult,” he said, gravely.

Madame de St. Andre lifted her eyes quickly to Calvert’s face and, noting the ill-concealed disgust and quiet scorn written there, blushed scarlet and regarded him haughtily.

“Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire is one of the greatest gentlemen in Europe—­and—­and anyone whom he distinguishes by his attentions must feel honored.”

“Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire is one of the greatest roues in Europe,” corrected Calvert, calmly, “and anyone whom he distinguishes by his attentions ought to feel disgraced.”