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 "Mam'selle," he said, "I have come to ask your pardon for my rudeness to you this afternoon."

"I do not lightly forgive, Mr. McDonald," Jolie answered after a pause. "You have done me a great service, but that, as I conceive it, does not give you the privilege of scolding me when you choose."

"Nor do I so conceive it," he answered.

"And yet you hectored me shamefully."

"I was angry. I am sorry."

"And Almayne?" she asked quickly. "You have scolded him also because of what he told me?"

"I have said nothing to him yet," he replied.

"I forbid you to mention the matter to him." Her tone was a command.

"Mam'selle," he exclaimed, "you are arrogant!"

Her eyes flashed dangerously.

"And what if I am, Mr. Lachlan McDonald?" she said proudly.

He was silent, gazing at her in wonder.

"I know not how it is here in America," she continued, a biting sarcasm in her tone, "but in England the young men about me do not complain of what you are pleased to term my arrogance. They take me as I am, and they are proud to serve me."

She paused, expecting a reply, but none came. Deliberately she played her bold game to a finish.

"They said in London, Mr. Lachlan McDonald, that Jolie Stanwicke was the most lovely lady in all that great city, more lovely even than the great ladies of the Court. Because of her beauty many