“But suppose we should decide not to go home at all?”

“You will have to go some time, dear child.  You are all alone, except for me, and in the nature of things you can’t have me always.  Now that you are young, you think it an easy thing to break away from the ties of blood and birth; but believe me, it isn’t easy.  You, with your nature, could never do it.  The call of the land is strong, and the time will come when you will long to go home, long to go back to the land where your father led his soldiers, and where your mother was admired and loved.”

Madame Reynier paused and watched her niece, who, with eyes cast down, was toying with her spoon.  Suddenly a crimson flush rose and spread over Melanie’s cheeks and forehead and neck, and when she looked up into Madame Reynier’s face, she was gazing through unshed tears.  She rose quickly, came round to the older woman’s chair and kissed her cheek affectionately.

“Dear Auntie, you are very good to me, and patient, too.  It’s all true, I suppose; but the prospect of home and Count Lorenzo together—­ah, well!” she smiled reassuringly and again caressed Madame Reynier’s gaunt old face.  “I’ll think it all over, Auntie dear.”

Madame Reynier followed Melanie into her sitting-room, bringing the precious orchids in her two hands, fearful lest the fragile vase should fall.  Melanie regarded them a moment, and then said she thought they would do better in the drawing-room.

“I sometimes think the little garden pink quite as pretty as an orchid.”

“They aren’t so much in Mr. Lloyd-Jones’ style as these,” replied Madame Reynier.  She had a faculty of commenting pleasantly without the least hint of criticism.  This remark delighted Melanie.

“No; I should never picture Mr. Lloyd-Jones as a garden pink.  But then, Auntie, you remember how eloquent he was about the hills and the stars.  That speech did not at all indicate a hothouse nature.”

“Nevertheless, I think his sentiments have been cultivated, like his orchids.”

“Not a bad achievement,” said Melanie.

There was an interval of silence, while the younger woman stood looking out of the window and Madame Reynier cut the leaves of a French journal.  She did not read, however, and presently she broke the silence.  “I don’t remember that Mr. Van Camp ever sent orchids to you.”

“Mr. Van Camp never gave me any kind of flower.  He thinks flowers are the most intimate of all gifts, and should only be exchanged between sweethearts.  At least, I heard him expound some such theory years ago, when we first knew him.”

Madame smiled—­a significant smile, if any one had been looking.  Nothing further was said until Melanie unexpectedly shot straight to the mark with: 

“How do you think he would do, Auntie, in place of Count Lorenzo?”

Madame Reynier showed no surprise.  “He is a sterling man; but your cousin would never consent to it.”