"I must really apologize, my dear Valérie. Have I kept you waiting?" he cried breathlessly, at the same time bending and kissing her lightly.
She gave her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watched him with contemplative eyes as he rushed on.
"I thought I should be unable to take you out to-day, as I was detained in the City upon business. However, I've brought the dog-cart round. The drive will do you good, for the weather is superb."
"Indeed," she said languidly. Putting out a lazy, bejewelled hand, she drew back the curtain that hid the window, and gazed out upon the bright after-noon. "Yes, it is lovely," she assented. "But you must excuse me to-day, Hugh. I am not feeling well."
"Why, what's the matter?" he asked in alarm, noticing for the first time that there was a restless, haggard expression about her eyes.
"Oh, it's nothing," she replied with a smile; "really nothing. A mere headache. I shall be better to-morrow."
"Can I do anything for you?"
"No, thanks," she answered, motioning him to a seat beside her.
"No, no, at your feet; Valérie—always at your feet," the young man replied gayly, throwing himself down before her, and flinging his head back in order to gaze more intently into the dark, brilliant eyes above him.
Keeping time with a heavy finger, he sang, in a not unmusical baritone, two lines of an old French love song:
"Non, ma jeanesse n'est pas morte,
Il n'est pas mort ton souvenir."
But his fair companion was almost oblivious to the importance of the burden of his melody. With her
