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22 his lips thin and straight; while his voice, unctuous and oily, and his glances, always quick and restlessly furtive, no less than the fawning gestures of his hands and his soft tread proclaimed him a born spy. At least so Lucette thought, and she hated him accordingly, as she hated all things mean and base.

But his feeling for her was very far removed from hatred, and as he came up now his glance was full of admiration.

"I am the happiest of men to find you alone, Mistress Lucette."

"I am not the happiest of women to find you anywhere—near me, Master Dauban," she retorted.

"You are as cruel to me as you are beautiful."

"And you are as handsome as you are honest," she cried with a shrug. He winced.

"Why do you always wrong me so?"

"In calling you honest, you mean?"

"You are in truth a sweet rose, Mistress Lucette, but the thorns of your wit are sharp and draw blood."

"They are meant to prevent snails and slugs from crawling too near me, Master Dauban."

"I take all you say in good part."

"In 'good part.' And what good part is there in you, I pray? I have never seen it."

"I can be a firm friend."

"To yourself, maybe."

"And an ugly enemy, too, at times."

Lucette looked him up and down, and her lip curled as she answered with almost savage contempt—

"Who has fallen so low as to fear you, Master Dauban? Have you been trounced by some scullion of the kitchen? You should beware how you offend any one with hands to strike with."

"It is easy to scoff, mistress," he returned sullenly, stung by her words.