Over his face a smile flowed, while he looked down on me: no temper, save his own, would have expressed by a smile the sort of agitation which now fevered him.

“ M. de Bassompierre is there⁠—is he not?” he inquired, pointing to the library.

“Yes.”

“He noticed me at dinner? He understood me?”

“Yes, Graham.”

“I am brought up for judgment, then, and so is she ?”

“ Mr. Home” (we now and always continued to term him Mr. Home at times) “is talking to his daughter.”