He fixed his eyes on me as he made this remark, enjoying the study of its effect on me.
‘Well,’ said I, ‘I never meant to marry her. I’m bound, you know. It was only another polite fiction designed to annoy you, my dear Pasha.’
‘Ah, is that so? Now, really, that’s amusing,’ and he chuckled. He did not appear annoyed at having been deceived. I wondered a little at that—then.
‘We have really,’ he continued, ‘been living in an atmosphere of polite fictions. For example, Lord Wheatley, there was a polite fiction that I was grieved at Constantine’s escape.’
‘And another that you were anxious to recapture him.’
‘And a third that you were not anxious to escape from my—hospitality.’
‘And a fourth that you were so solicitous for my friends’ enjoyment that you exerted yourself to find them good fishing.’
‘Ah, yes, yes,’ he laughed. ‘And there is to be one more polite fiction, my dear lord.’
‘I believe I can guess it,’ said I, meeting his eye.