BARBARA DANCES THE CORANTO
“Yes, in France, monsieur.”
There was a hidden meaning to her words.
He thought a moment before replying. “But madame is of a house of France. The English Mistress Clerke is also the French Vicomtesse de Bresac.”
She turned fully towards him and met his gaze steadily.
“But, thank God! the part of me that is English is the part of me which scorns such attentions as yours. To be the object of such gallantries is to be placed in a class”—she paused to measure out the depth of her scorn—“in a class with your Shrewsburys and Middletons. It is an insult to breathe the air with you alone. My cavaliers are gentlemen, monsieur, and in England—”
She broke off abruptly, as if conveying too full an honor by conversing with him; and then, woman-like, “Why did you save the Spanish coach?” she cried, passionately.
Monsieur Mornay smiled blithely.
“Madame would not look half so handsome dead as she does alive.” He took a step as
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