Chantonnay, as she walked laboriously on Albert's arm down the ramp
of the Chateau de Gemosac at the termination of the meeting. "It is
not for that that she throws her note of a thousand francs upon the
table and promises more when things are in train. It is because she
can refuse nothing to Dormer Colville. Allez, my son! I have a
woman's heart! I know!"

Albert contented himself with a sardonic laugh. He was not in the
humour to talk of women's hearts; for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's
action had struck a sudden note of British realism into the harmony
of his political fancies. He had talked so much, had listened to so
much talk from others, that the dream of a restored monarchy had at
last been raised to those far realms of the barely possible in which
the Gallic fancy wanders in moments of facile digestion.

It was sufficient for the emergency that the others present at the
meeting could explain that one does not carry money in one's pocket
in a country lane at night. But in their hearts all were conscious
of a slight feeling of resentment toward Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence;
of a vague sense of disappointment, such as a dreamer may experience
on being roughly awakened.

The three priests folded their hands with complacency. Poverty,
their most cherished possession, spoke for itself in their case.
The notary blinked and fumbled at his lips with yellow fingers in
hasty thought. He was a Royalist notary because there existed in
the country of the Deux Sevres a Royalist clientele. In France,
even a washerwoman must hold political views and stand or fall by
them. It was astounding how poor every one felt at that moment, and
it rested, as usual, with a woman's intuition to grasp the only rope