‘Ah!’
‘A Miss Hipgrave—Miss Beatrice Hipgrave.’
‘Ah, yes!’
‘Who is a friend of yours?’
‘Certainly, my dear Pasha.’
‘Who is, in fact—let me shake hands again—your future wife. A thousand congratulations!’
‘Oh, thanks, you’re very kind,’ said I. ‘Yes, she is.’
I declare that I must have played this scene—no easy one—well, for Mouraki’s rapturous amusement disappeared. He seemed rather put out He looked (and I hope felt) a trifle foolish. I kept a cool careless glance on him.
But his triumph came from elsewhere. He turned from me to Phroso, and my eyes followed his. She stood rigid, frozen, lifeless; she devoured my face with an appealing gaze. She made no sign and uttered no sound. Mouraki smiled again; and I said:
‘Any London news, my dear Pasha?’