"Of course, of course. If Fulvia said no, that would not be your fault. She won't, though," muttered Mr. Carden-Cox. Aloud, he went on: "You understand the alternative. Fulvia, as your fiancée, may demand what amount of secrecy she pleases, for the family of her future husband. I shall not, in that case, oppose her. Fulvia, standing alone, will be a different matter. I shall feel it my duty to take action on her behalf."
"To blazon our private affairs abroad!" Nigel spoke bitterly. It was not wise, neither was it surprising.
Mr. Carden-Cox shrugged his shoulders.
"Fulvia's private affairs, made known, may unquestionably drag yours to the forefront. It is only under one condition that I promise to shelter your father's name. People will begin to talk—have begun already. You can take—say, to the end of the week for consideration. Then, if I do not hear—"
"I understand."
"You can send me a line; or come and see me. Whichever you choose. But, remember, my mind is made up. Nothing can alter it."
Mr. Carden-Cox was gone, and Nigel went back to the drawing-room.
The past scene appeared to have had a curiously bracing effect on Mrs. Browning. The languor and sadness of the last fortnight were thrown off. Her children had never seen her look so young and fair and dignified as she did, standing in their midst, when Nigel returned from the front door. Nothing, or next to nothing, had been yet said; they had waited for him.
Mrs. Browning laid one hand again on his arm, as if for support, though she had not the look of one needing support. A soft rose flushed her cheek, lending a light to the eyes.
"Has he apologised? Will he be silent?" asked Fulvia.