Léonie reined in short, guiltily aware of trespass. The youthful fisherman saw her first, and called to the lady on the tree-trunk.

“Look, mamma!”

The lady looked in the direction of his pointing finger, and raised her brows in quick surprise.

“I am very sorry,” Léonie stammered. “The wood was so pretty—I will go.”

The lady rose, and went forward across the strip of grass that separated them.

“It’s very well, madam. Why should you go?” Then she saw that the little face beneath the hat’s big brim was that of a child, and she smiled. “Will you not dismount, my dear, and bear me company a while?”

The wistful, uncertain look went out of Léonie’s eyes. She dimpled, nodding.

“S’il vous plaît, madame.”

“You’re French? Are you staying here?” inquired the lady.

Léonie kicked her foot free of the stirrup, and slid to the ground.

“But yes, I am staying at Avon. I am the—bah, I have forgotten the word!—the—ward of Monseigneur le Duc.”

A shadow crossed the lady’s face. She made a movement as though to stand between Léonie and the children. Léonie’s chin went up.

“I am not anything else, madame, je vous assure. I am in the charge of Madame Field, the cousin of Monseigneur. It is better that I go, yes?”

“I crave your pardon, my dear. I beg that you will stay. I am Lady Merivale.”

“I thought you were,” confided Léonie. “Lady Fanny told me of you.”

“Fanny?” Jennifer’s brow cleared. “You know her?”

“I have been with her two weeks, when I came from Paris. Monseigneur thought it would not be convenable for me to be with him until he had found a lady suitable to be my gouvernante, you see.”

Jennifer, in the past, had had experience of his Grace’s ideas of propriety, and thus she did not see at all, but she was too polite to say so. She and Léonie sat down on the tree-trunk while the small boy stared round-eyed.

“No one likes Monseigneur, I find,” Léonie remarked. “Just a few perhaps. Lady Fanny, and M. Davenant, and me, of course.”

“Oh, you like him, then?” Jennifer looked at her wonderingly.

“He is so good to me, you understand,” explained Léonie. “That is your little son?”

“Yes, that is John. Come and make your bow, John.”

John obeyed, and ventured a remark:

“Your hair is quite short, madam.”

Léonie pulled off her hat.

“But how pretty!” exclaimed Jennifer. “Why did you cut it?”

Léonie hesitated.

“Madame, please will you not ask me? I am not allowed to tell people. Lady Fanny said I must not.”

“I hope ’twas not an illness?” said Jennifer, with an anxious eye to her children.

“Oh no!” Léonie assured her. Again she hesitated. “Monseigneur did not say I was not to tell. It was only Lady Fanny, and she is not always very wise, do you think? And I do not suppose that she would want me not to tell you, for you were at the convent with her, n’est-ce pas? I have only just begun to be a girl, you see, madame.”

Jennifer was startled.

“I beg your pardon, my dear?”

“Since I was twelve I have always been a boy. Then Monseigneur found me, and I was his page. And—and then he discovered that I was not a boy at all, and he made me his daughter. I did not like it at first, and these petticoats still bother me, but in some ways it is very pleasant. I have so many things all my own, and I am a lady now.”

Jennifer’s eyes grew soft. She patted Léonie’s hand.

“You quaint child! For how long do you think to stay at Avon?”

“I do not quite know, madame. It is as Monseigneur wills. And I have to learn so many things. Lady Fanny is to present me, I think. It is nice of her, is it not?”

“Prodigious amiable,” Jennifer agreed. “Tell me your name, my dear.”

“I am Léonie de Bonnard, madame.”

“And your parents made the—the Duke your guardian?”

“N-no. They have been dead for many years, you see. Monseigneur did it all himself.” Léonie glanced down at the babe. “Is this also your son, madame?”

“Yes, child, this is Geoffrey Molyneux Merivale. Is he not beautiful?”

“Very,” said Léonie politely. “I do not know babies very well.” She rose, and picked up her plumed hat. “I must go back, madame. Madame Field will have become agitated.” She smiled mischievously. “She is very like a hen, you know.”

Jennifer laughed.

“But you’ll come again? Come to the house one day, and I will present my husband.”

“Yes, if you please, madame. I should like to come. Au revoir, Jean; au revoir, bébé!”

The baby gurgled, and waved an aimless hand. Léonie hoisted herself into the saddle.

“One does not know what to say to a baby,” she remarked. “He is very nice, of course,” she added. She bowed, hat in hand, and, turning, made her way back along the path down which she had come, to the road.

Jennifer picked up the baby, and, calling to John to follow, went through the wood and across the gardens to the house. She relinquished the children to their nurse, and went in search of her husband.

She found him in the library, turning over his accounts, a big, loose-limbed man, with humorous grey eyes, and a firm-lipped mouth. He held out his hand.

“Faith, Jenny, you grow more lovely each time I look upon you,” he said.

She laughed, and went to sit on the arm of his chair.

“Fanny thinks us unfashionable, Anthony.”

“Oh, Fanny——! She’s fond enough of Marling at heart.”

“Very fond of him, Anthony, but she is modish withal, and likes other men to whisper pretty things in her ear. I fear that I shall never have the taste for town ways.”

“My love, if I find ‘other men’ whispering in your ear——”

“My lord!”

“My lady?”

“You are monstrous ungallant, sir! As if they—as if I would!”

His hold about her tightened.

“You might be the rage of town, Jenny, an you would.”

“Oh, is that your will, my lord?” she teased. “Now I know that you are disappointed in your wife. I thank you, sir!” She slipped from him, and swept him a mock curtsy.

My lord jumped up and caught her.

“Rogue, I am the happiest man on earth.”

“My felicitations, sir. Anthony, you have had no word from Edward, have you?”

“From Edward? Nay, why should I?”

“I met a girl to-day in the woods who has stayed with the Marlings. I wondered whether he had written to tell you.”

“A girl? Here? Who was she?”

“You’ll be surprised, my lord. She is a very babe, and—and she says she is the Duke’s ward.”

“Alastair?” Merivale’s brow wrinkled. “What new whim can that be?”

“I could not ask, of course. But is it not strange that—that man—should adopt her?”

“Perchance he is a reformed character, my love.”

She shivered.

“He could never be that. I feel so sorry for this child—in his power. I asked her to come and see me one day. Was it right of me?”

He frowned.

“I’ll have no dealings with Alastair, Jenny. I am not like to forget that his Grace saw fit to abduct my wife.”

“I wasn’t your wife then,” she protested. “And—and this child—this Léonie—is not like that at all. I should be so pleased if you would let her come.”

He made her a magnificent leg.

“My lady, you are mistress in your own house,” he said.

So it was that when next Léonie rode over to Merivale she was received gladly both by Jennifer and her lord. She was rather shy at first, but her nervousness fled before Merivale’s smile. Over a dish of Bohea she made gay conversation, and presently turned to her host.

“I wanted to meet you, milor’,” she said cheerfully. “I have heard much—oh, much—about you!”

Merivale sat bolt upright.

“Who in the world——?” he began uneasily.

“Lady Fanny, and Monseigneur, a little. Tell me, m’sieur, did you really stop Lord Harding’s coach——?”

“For a wager, child, for a wager!”

She laughed.

“Aha, I knew! And he was very angry, was he not? And it had to be kept secret, because in—in dip-lo-mat-ic circles it——”

“For heaven’s sake, child!”

“And now you are called The Highwayman!”

“No, no, only to my intimates!”

Jennifer shook her head at him.

“Oh, my lord! Go on, Léonie. Tell me some more. The wretch has grossly deceived me, I’ll have you know.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Merivale, wiping his heated brow, “have pity!”

“But tell me,” she insisted. “Was it not very exciting to be a highwayman for one night?”

“Very,” he said gravely. “But not at all respectable.”

“No,” she agreed. “One does not always want to be respectable, I think. Me, I am a great trial to everybody, because I am not respectable at all. It seems that a lady may do many bad things and still be respectable, but if one speaks of such things as breeches then one is unladylike. I find it very hard.”

His eyes danced. He tried to suppress a laugh, and failed.

“Faith, you must come often to see us, mademoiselle! ’Tis not often we meet such a charming little lady.”

“You must come to see me next,” she answered. “That is right, is it not?”

“I am afraid——” began Jennifer uncomfortably.

“His Grace and I do not visit,” ended Merivale.

Léonie flung up her hands.

“Oh, parbleu! Every one I meet is the same! It does not surprise me that sometimes Monseigneur is wicked when everybody is so unkind to him.”

“His Grace has a way of making it difficult for one to be—er—kind to him,” said Merivale grimly.

“M’sieur,” answered Léonie with great dignity, “it is not wise to speak thus of Monseigneur to me. He is the only person in the whole world who cares what happens to me. So you see I will not listen to people who try to warn me against him. It makes something inside me get all hot and angry.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Merivale, “I crave your pardon.”

“I thank you, m’sieur,” she said gravely.

She came often to Merivale after that, and once dined there with Madam Field, who had no knowledge of the rift between Avon and Merivale.

A fortnight passed, bringing no word from Justin, but at the end of it a travelling coach, loaded with baggage, arrived at Merivale, and a tall young exquisite leaped out. He was admitted into the house and met by Jennifer, who laughed when she saw him, and held out both her hands.

“Why, Rupert! Have you come to stay?”

He kissed her hands, and then her cheek.

“Devil take it, Jenny, you’re too lovely, ’pon my soul you are! Lord, here’s Anthony! I wonder if he saw?”

Merivale gripped his hand.

“One of these days, Rupert, I’ll teach you a lesson,” he threatened. “What’s to do? You’ve brought enough baggage for three men.”

“Baggage? Nonsense, man! Why, there’s only a few things there, I give you my word! One must dress, y’know, one must dress. Anthony, what’s this fandangle about Justin? Fanny’s devilish mysterious, but the tale’s all over town that he’s adopted a girl! Stap me, but that’s——” He broke off, remembering Jennifer’s presence. “I’ve come down to see for myself. God knows where Justin is! I don’t.” He looked sharply at Merivale, consternation in his face. “He’s not at Avon, is he?”

“Calm yourself,” soothed Merivale. “He is not here.”

“Praise the Lord for that. Who is the girl?”

“A pretty child,” Merivale answered guardedly.

“Ay, I’d have guessed that. Justin had ever a nice taste in——” Again he stopped. “Thunder an’ turf, I beg your pardon, Jenny! I’d forgot! Demmed careless of me!” He looked ruefully at Merivale. “I must always be saying the wrong thing, Tony. It’s this rattle-pate of mine, and what with the bottle—well, well!”

Merivale led him into the library, where a lackey came to them presently, bringing wine. Rupert settled his long length in a chair and drank deeply.

“Truth to tell, Tony,” he said confidently, “I’m more at ease when the ladies are not present. My tongue runs away with me, burn it! Not but what Jenny’s a devilish fine woman,” he added hastily. “The wonder is that you admit me into your house. When one thinks ’twas my brother ran off with Jenny——” He shook his head comically.

“You’re always welcome,” smiled Merivale. “I’ve no fear that you’ll seek to abduct Jenny.”

“Lord, no! I’m not saying that I haven’t trifled somewhat with women now and then—one has to, y’know. Honour of the name, my boy—but I’ve no real taste for ’em, Tony, none at all.” He refilled his glass. “’Tis a queer thing, when you come to think on’t. Here am I, an Alastair, with never an intrigue to my name. I feel it sometimes,” he sighed, “’tis as though I were no true Alastair. Why, there’s never been one of us——”