The figure of a Cupid danced joyously on a tall pedestal to the right of the basin.

The Duke sat down on the bench, and was still, with that rare stillness which only comes of nerves in perfect harmony, his brow knitted in careful thought.

Now and again the frown cleared from his face, and his intent features relaxed into a faint smile, a smile of pleasant memory.

Once he rose, walked round the fountains frowning, came back to the bench, and sat down again.

The early September dusk was upon him when at last he rose and with quick steps took his way through the shrubbery, with the air of a man whose mind, for good or ill, was at last made up.
When he came on to the upper terrace his eyes fell on a group which stood at the further corner, near the entrance of the chateau, and he sauntered slowly up to it.
In the middle of it stood M.Gournay-Martin, a big, round, flabby hulk of a man.