“I heard you were going to be married to a Russian prince.”
She colored furiously.
“Who told you that?”
“Some fellow we met at Nice, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name. I wouldn’t believe it, but Gwen said it was just the sort of thing you would do.”
“Why?” she inquired sharply, keeping her face averted as she spoke.
“Well, she thought you would not care for a quiet, humdrum life in England.”
A gleam of fierce scorn came into Norah’s violet eyes, and then flashed out again, leaving them dim as with unshed tears.
“Whatever I might have cared for I am not likely to get.”
Her tone was sad, her face so wistful, Colonel Dacre forgot her bad accent, and said with earnest sympathy:
“Anyhow, don’t make a mull of your life, Norah, in a fit of the blues. There is no reason why you shouldn’t be happy.”