“Yes, I met her in the chapel. Really, I should have expected to be safe from her there. And the Mother would not turn her out!” And then the duchess, by a sudden transition, said to me, with a half-apologetic, half challenging smile: “You got my note, I suppose, Mr. Aycon?”
For a minute I regarded the duchess. And I smiled, and my smile turned to a laugh as I answered:
“Oh, yes! I got the note.”
“I meant it,” said she. “But I suppose I must forgive you now. You’ve been so brave, and you’re so much hurt.” And the duchess’ eyes expressed a gratifying admiration of my powers.
I fingered my arm, which lay comfortably enough in the bandages and the sling that Suzanne’s care had provided for it. And I rose to my feet.
“Oh, you mustn’t move!” cried the duchess, rising also and coming to where I stood.
“By Jove, but I must!” said I, looking at the clock. “The duke’s got four hours’ start of me.”
“What do you want with my husband now?” she asked. “I don’t see why you should fight him; anyhow, you can’t fight him till your arm is well.”
The duchess’ words struck on my ear and her dainty little figure was before my eyes, but my thoughts were absent from her.
“Don’t go, Mr. Aycon,” said she.