THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
in London, the gallant Chevalier Mornay, who, however bold or daring, carried forward his presumptions with a grace and courtesy which robbed them of their offensiveness? She might acknowledge this now that he was grown so different. What had come over him? Was he mad? He had repulsed her as though she sought to do him an injury; had spoken to her as she had heard him speak to the vile creatures about him, in a tone which lowered her to their own low level. He had spurned her, scorned her lightly, carelessly, coolly, as though even his scorn were too valuable an emotion to squander upon one he held in such a low estimation. Never had she been treated thus by man or woman, and her gorge rose at the thought of it. The sobbing ceased, and in place of her distress came an unreasoning, quiet fury—fury at herself, at him, at the world which had brought her to such a pass. She rose and, angrily brushing the wet, straggling hair from her eyes, threw wide the stern casement to look out on the gray turmoil of waters which vanished into the unseen. Was this the man for whom she had left
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