The very room was going to sleep, and slowly creeping shadows were cast by its walls.

It was then Fauchery spoke of departure.

Yet he once more forgot his intention at sight of the Countess Sabine.

She was resting from her cares as hostess, and as she sat in her wonted seat, silent, her eyes fixed on a log which was turning into embers, her face appeared so white and so impassable that doubt again possessed him.

In the glow of the fire the small black hairs on the mole at the corner of her lip became white.