"Not quite twenty-three," said Germaine hastily. "And look at the
wretched luck I've had. The Duke falls ill and is treated at
Montevideo. As soon as he recovers, since he's the most obstinate
person in the world, he resolves to go on with the expedition. He
sets out; and for an age, without a word of warning, there's no more
news of him--no news of any kind. For six months, you know, we
believed him dead."

"Dead? Oh, how unhappy you must have been!" said Sonia.

"Oh, don't speak of it! For six months I daren't put on a light
frock," said Germaine, turning to her.

"A lot she must have cared for him," whispered Jeanne to Marie.

"Fortunately, one fine day, the letters began again. Three months
ago a telegram informed us that he was coming back; and at last the
Duke returned," said Germaine, with a theatrical air.

"The Duke returned," cried Jeanne, mimicking her.

"Never mind. Fancy waiting nearly seven years for one's fiance. That
was constancy," said Sonia.

"Oh, you're a sentimentalist, Mlle. Kritchnoff," said Jeanne, in a
tone of mockery. "It was the influence of the castle."

"What do you mean?" said Germaine.