Her face was, indeed, a guarantee that if her maiden fancy had been touched, her heart was at all events free from that deeper feeling which assuredly leaves its mark upon all who suffer it.
The name of Monsieur de Clericy's former secretary in some way grated on my hearing, so that instead of retiring from the presence of mademoiselle as my manners bade me do, I lingered, seeking opportunity to continue the conversation.
"I do not wish to intrude on Monsieur de Clericy," I said.

"It is perhaps inexpedient that the new machine should be seen of the old." Mademoiselle laughed, and again I caught the deep silver note of sympathy in her voice that was so new and yet familiar.

In laughter the soul surely speaks.
"The word scarcely describes Monsieur Miste," retorted she.
"Does any single word describe him ?" For a moment she reflected.

She was without self-consciousness, and spoke with me, a stranger, as easily as she talked to her father.
"A single word ?" she echoed.

"Yes--a chimera." At this moment the sound of voices in the corridor made further delay impossible.
"Perhaps Mademoiselle will allow me to ring for the servant to conduct me to Monsieur de Clericy's study," I said.
"I will show you the room," replied she; "its door is never closed to me.