“A fool,” said I, “or—a lover!”
“Ah!” cried the duchess, a smile coming on her lips. “If it is that, I’ll forgive you, my dear Gustave. Whose good opinion do you fear to lose?”
“I write,” said Gustave, with a rhetorical gesture, “to say that I am going to the house of some friends to meet my sister!”
“Oh, you write?” we murmured.
“My sister writes to say she is not there!”
“Oh, she writes?” we murmured again.
“And it is thought—”
“By whom?” asked the duchess.
“By Lady Cynthia Chillingdon,” said I.
“That it is a trick—a device—a deceit!” continued poor Gustave.