memory. Once he rose, walked round the fountains frowning, came back
to the bench, and sat down again. The early September dusk was upon
him when at last he rose and with quick steps took his way through
the shrubbery, with the air of a man whose mind, for good or ill,
was at last made up.

When he came on to the upper terrace his eyes fell on a group which
stood at the further corner, near the entrance of the chateau, and
he sauntered slowly up to it.

In the middle of it stood M. Gournay-Martin, a big, round, flabby
hulk of a man. He was nearly as red in the face as M. Charolais; and
he looked a great deal redder owing to the extreme whiteness of the
whiskers which stuck out on either side of his vast expanse of
cheek. As he came up, it struck the Duke as rather odd that he
should have the Charolais eyes, set close together; any one who did
not know that they were strangers to one another might have thought
it a family likeness.

The millionaire was waving his hands and roaring after the manner of
a man who has cultivated the art of brow-beating those with whom he
does business; and as the Duke neared the group, he caught the
words:

"No; that's the lowest I'll take. Take it or leave it. You can say
Yes, or you can say Good-bye; and I don't care a hang which."

"It's very dear," said M. Charolais, in a mournful tone.

"Dear!" roared M. Gournay-Martin. "I should like to see any one else