She raised her head and looked at him calmly now. The flush had gone
from her face, and a light of determination was in her eyes. To that was
added suddenly a certain tinge of recklessness and abandon in carriage
and manner, as one flings the body loose from the restraints of clothes,
and it expands in a free, careless, defiant joy.

Jean Jacques' recital of her father's tale had confused her for a moment,
it was so true yet so untrue, so full of lies and yet so solid in fact.
"The head of the house--visits to Madrid on political business--the
parlour, the market, society--all that!" It suggested the picture of the
life of a child of a great house; it made her a lady, and not a superior
servant as she had been; it adorned her with a credit which was not hers;
and for a moment she was ashamed. Yet from the first she had lent
herself to the general imposture that they had fled from Spain for
political reasons, having lost all and suffered greatly; and it was true
while yet it was a lie. She had suffered, both her father and herself
had suffered; she had been in danger, in agony, in sorrow, in despair--
it was only untrue that they were of good birth and blood, and had had
position and comfort and much money. Well, what harm did that do
anybody? What harm did it do this little brown seigneur from Quebec?
Perhaps he too had made himself out to be more than he was. Perhaps he
was no seigneur at all, she thought. When one is in distant seas and in
danger of his life, one will hoist any flag, sail to any port, pay homage
to any king. So would she. Anyhow, she was as good as this provincial,
with his ancient silver watch, his plump little hands, and his book of
philosophy.

What did it matter, so all came right in the end! She would justify
herself, if she had the chance. She was sick of conspiracy, and danger,
and chicanery--and blood. She wanted her chance. She had been badly