"He informed you truly, Sir," said Madame Lefrette, calmly; "he has not seen her since her father's death disclosed her poverty."
Le Vert had the grace almost to blush, but went on:
"I had for some time suspected something of the sort———"
Madame Lefrette smiled quietly in his face; she knew he had been fully aware of it.
"———and," he continued, more rapidly, "what Napoleon told me, only confirmed my apprehension, that "his engagement with Marie had become somewhat irksome to both parties; and that, in short———"
"In short," she interposed, calmly, "it were better broken off. Is not that what you mean?"
"Well—that is———" he began.
"I quite agree with you," she interrupted. "And now let it be considered ended, expressly, as it has been tacitly, for some time."
"Nay," said the old gentleman, "its end must date from this moment—as a mutual agreement—neither party being liable to the charge of bad faith."
"Let it be so, then," she said with a scornful smile; for she divined his thoughts. "Legal proceedings, in such matters, are not to my taste."
"It is settled, then," he returned, unbending his dignity a little, "and I hope without unkind feeling?"
"With heartfelt rejoicing, rather," she replied, accepting his hand for a moment, and returning his profound salutation, as he bade her a stately adieu.
Madame Dupley and M. Maillefert entered the room as he left it.
"Can you tell me where Marie is?" asked Madame Lefrette. "We have just left her in the garden," the little widow replied, with a glance of merry intelligence toward Monsieur Maillefert, which that gentleman returned with a twinkle of his laughing eye. Madame Lefrette did not observe this telegraphing, but went immediately in search of her daughter. Passing along the main walk, a few moments brought her near the natural summer-house, where we left De Cheville and Marie. Here the tones of his voice, not loud, but impassioned and trembling, came, softened by the leafy screen,
