The Cure instantly presented Valmond to her.

She looked at him brightly, alluringly, apparently so simply; yet her first act showed the perception behind that rosy and golden face, and the demure eyes whose lids languished now and then--to the unknowing with an air of coquetry, to the knowing--did any know her ?--as one would shade one's eyes to see a landscape clearly, or make out a distant figure.

As Valmond bowed, a thought seemed to fetch down the pink eyelids, and she stretched out her hand, which he took and kissed, while she said in English, though they had been talking in French: "A traveller too, like myself, Monsieur Valmond?
But Pontiac--why Pontiac ?" A furtive, inquiring look shot from the eyes of the young Seigneur, a puzzled glance from the Cure's, as they watched Valmond; for they did not know that he had knowledge of English; he had not spoken it to Medallion, who had sent into his talk several English words.

How did this woman divine it?
A strange suspicion flashed into Valmond's face, but it was gone on the instant, and he replied quickly: "Yes, madame, a traveller; and for Pontiac--there is as much earth and sky about Pontiac as about Paris or London or New York." "But people count, Monsieur-Valmond." She hesitated before the name, as if trying to remember, though she recalled perfectly.

It was her tiny fashion to pique, to appear unknowing.
"Truly, Madame Chalice," he answered instantly, for he did not yield to the temptation to pause before her name; "but sometimes the few are as important to us as the many--eh ?" She almost started at the eh, for it broke in grimly upon the gentlemanly flavour of his speech.
"If my reasons for coming were only as good as madame's--" he added.
"Who knows!" she said, with her eyes resting idly on his flowered waistcoat, and dropping to the incongruous enamelled knee-boots with their red tassels.