It was redolent of her.  A high vase of remarkable beauty, filled with white roses, stood on the gueridon.  He went forward and touched it, and closed his eyes as though in pain.  When he opened them he saw her standing in the archway.

She had taken off her coat, and was in a simple white muslin gown, with a black belt—­a costume that had become habitual.  Her age was thirty.  The tragedy and the gravity of her life during these later years had touched her with something that before was lacking.  In the street, in the galleries, people had turned to look at her; not with impudent stares.  She caught attention, aroused imagination.  Once, the year before, she had had a strange experience with a well-known painter, who, in an impulsive note, had admitted following her home and bribing the concierge.  He craved a few sittings.  Her expression now, as she looked at Peter, was graver than usual.

“You must not come to-morrow,” she said.

“I thought we were going to Versailles again,” he replied in surprise.  “I have made the arrangements.”

“I have changed my mind.  I’m not going.”

“You want to postpone it?” he asked.

She took a chair beside the little blaze in the fireplace.

“Sit down, Peter.  I wish to say something to you.  I have been wishing to do so for some time.”

“Do you object if I stand a moment?” he said.  “I feel so much more comfortable standing, especially when I am going to be scolded.”

“Yes,” she admitted, “I am going to scold you.  Your conscience has warned you.”

“On the contrary,” he declared, “it has never been quieter.  If I have offended; it is through ignorance.”

“It is through charity, as usual,” she said m a low voice.  “If your conscience be quiet, mine is not.  It is in myself that I am disappointed—­I have been very selfish.  I have usurped you.  I have known it all along, and I have done very wrong in not relinquishing you before.”

“Who would have shown me Paris?” he exclaimed.

“No,” she continued, “you would not have been alone.  If I had needed proof of that fact, I had it to-day—­”

“Oh, Minturn,” he interrupted; “think of me hanging about an Embassy and trying not to spill tea!” And he smiled at the image that presented.

Her own smile was fleeting.

“You would never do that, I know,” she said gravely.

“You are still too modest, Peter, but the time has gone by when I can be easily deceived.  You have a great reputation among men of affairs, an unique one.  In spite of the fact that you are distinctly American, you have a wide interest in what is going on in the world.  And you have an opportunity here to meet people of note, people really worth while from every point of view.  You have no right to neglect it.”

He was silent a moment, looking down at her.  She was leaning forward, her eyes fixed on the fire, her hands clasped between her knees.