“Caprice!” he cried. “By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter are not capricious⁠—”

“Never mind⁠—never mind about that! You must not sit in judgment⁠—you of all men. Why are you here tonight? Oh,” she cried, “I will tell you why! Monsieur receives a little note; he sends a little answer; he dresses in his conquering raiment⁠—”

“I don’t,” said Clifford, very red.

“You do, and it becomes you,” she retorted with a faint smile. Then again, very quietly, “I am in your power, but I know I am in the power of a friend. I have come to acknowledge it to you here⁠—and it is because of that that I am here to beg of you⁠—a⁠—a favour.”

Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing.

“I am in⁠—great distress of mind. It is Monsieur Hastings.”

“Well?” said Clifford, in some astonishment.