saw the two women in the window above.

"Paul, is not that a woman to be loved?" he said; with a gaiety which
was not spontaneous.

"Which one?" asked the Chevalier, diplomatically.

"The one with hair like the haze in the morning."

"The simile is good," confessed the Chevalier. "But there is something
in the eye which should warn a man."

"Eye? Can you tell the color of an eye from this distance? It's more
than I can do."

The Chevalier's tan became a shade darker. "Perhaps it was the
reflection of the sun."

Victor swung his hat from his head gallantly. The Chevalier bowed
stiffly; the pain in his heart stopped the smile which would have
stirred his lips. The lad at his side had faith in women, and he
should never know that yonder beauty had played cup and ball with his,
the Chevalier's, heart. How nonchalant had been her cruelty the
preceding night! That letter! The Chevalier's eyes snapped with anger
and indignation as he replaced his hat. It was enough that the poet
knew why the marquis was in Quebec.

"You murmured a name in your sleep last night," said the Chevalier.

"What was it?"