A double rose of colour had come to his cheeks. He made an eager step towards her, but she retreated before him.
“It is enough for me that you have vindicated your name,” he said. “It is enough that I am not mistaken in you.”
“Spare me that comment on my shame,” she said. “Why will you keep me in this torture?”
But he must still hunger to justify his self-degradation by enlarging on it.
“Hush!” he said. “It is a sacrifice, I know; but perhaps, Yolande, only a provisional sacrifice. Dare I whisper my own expectations? You will be free for a year—a wife in nothing but the material endowments of wifehood; a—a prospective dowager, Yolande. The Marquess is much shaken—a prematurely old man—a—”
She turned from him, feeling sick to death.
“I am waiting,” she said icily.
* * * * * * * *
That was how the Marchese di Rocco gained his wife. For the rest, the priest, the Maire and notary were creatures of his own, and among them soon accomplished the ceremony and settlements. At the end, monsignore offered to kiss his newly-made bride; but she backed from him.
“Is this in the bond?” she asked coldly of her father. He was very righteous and peremptory at once.