I was now dressed, so I invited him into the breakfast-room, gave him a cup of coffee (which, to my credit, I didn’t poison), and began on my own eggs and toast.
“Fire away,” said I briefly.
“I suppose you know I’m going to be married?” he remarked.
“No, I hadn’t heard,” I replied, feigning to be entirely occupied with a very nimble egg. “Rather a busy time for marrying, isn’t it? Who is she?”
He gave a heavy laugh.
“You needn’t pretend to be so very innocent; I expect you could give a pretty good guess.”
“Mme. Devarges?” I asked blandly. “Suitable match; about your age—”
“I wish to the devil you wouldn’t try to be funny!” he exclaimed. “You know as well as I do it’s the signorina.”
“Really?” I replied. “Well, well! I fancied you were a little touched in that quarter. And she has consented to make you happy?”
I was curious to see what he would say. I knew he was a bad liar, and, as a fact, I believe he told the truth on this occasion, for he answered: