Elsie put a hand on her arm, and her little thrill of excitement died out at once.

“Yes,” said the girl; “I see, but you must be tranquil.”

“I will be tranquil,” promised the Comtesse.  “I will have consideration for my heart.  It is only the waiting which tries me.”

“And that is nearly at an end.”  Elsie released her arm, and the Comtesse turned again to the fire.  The tick of the clock renewed its tiny insistence; the great room again enveloped them in the austerity of its silence.  The girl returned to the silk strings in her lap.  She knew the occasion of the Comtesse’s sudden emotion; it was a familiar tale, and not the loss familiar for being told in whispers.  She had heard it first when she came from her English home to be the Comtesse’s companion.  It had been told to her officially, as it were, to guide her in her dealings with the Comtesse.  A florid French uncle, with a manner of confidential discretion that made her blush, had been the mouthpiece of the family, and from him she had learned how Jeanne, the Comtesse’s half-sister, had run away with a rogue, a man who got his deserts, an officer in a regiment stationed in Algeria.

“Eventually he committed suicide, but before that there were passages,” the French uncle had said.  The dreadful word “passages” seemed to contain the story, and he gave it an accent of unspeakable significance.  “The Comtesse has suffered,” he told her further.  “It was a sad affair, and she had much tenderness for Jeanne.”  And that, at first, seemed to be the whole of it, though once or twice the uncle checked himself on the brink of details.  But on this evening the tale was to be told afresh.  There had arrived from Africa one Colonel Saval, who had served with the sorry hero of poor Jeanne’s romance; he had known him and dealt with him; and he was appointed to come to the Comtesse in the quality of eye-witness.

He was punctual, at all events; the little clock was yet striking when the gaunt footman opened the door and spoke his name.  The Comtesse looked up, and Elsie Gray rose to receive him; he advanced and made his bow.

“Madame la Comtesse?” he said, with a faint note of inquiry.  The Comtesse’s inclination answered him.  “Madame la Comtesse honors me.  I am happy to be of service.”

He bowed to Elsie, who gave him “Good evening;” the footman set forward a chair for him and withdrew.  His white hair stood about his head like a delicate haze; under it, the narrow wise face was brick-red, giving news of his long service under the sun of North Africa.  He was short and slight, a tiny vivacious man, full of charming formalities, and there was about him something gentle and suave, that did not quite hide a trenchant quality of spirit.  He stood before them, smiling in a moment of hesitation, half paternal, wholly gallant.

“Madame la Comtesse is suffering,” said Elsie, in the spacious French idiom.  “There is little that she can say.  But she thanks Monsieur most sincerely for giving himself this trouble.  But please be seated.”