“Monsieur—my lord!” she ejaculated, “what I have to tell you is serious—nay, it may be terrible.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. You are in danger—imminent danger.”
“Pray don’t frighten me, Agatha,” he said, with a smile.
“Oh, my lord,” she returned, “you cannot deceive me. You love Mademoiselle Theresa. Don’t shake your head. I say you are enamoured of my young mistress.”
“Hush! Do not make such rash assertions. I swear to you,” he cried.
“Do not swear, monsieur,” she answered, interrupting him. “It is useless your attempting to deny it. You might as well attempt to prove to me that I am the Queen of France, as to that you do not love my mistress.”
“Well, for argument’s sake—mind, only for the sake of argument—assume, if you like, that I do love Mademoiselle Theresa. What then?”
“Well, then—a young man came here to-day.”
“Certainly. What of that?”