“None whatever,” she replied, with a forced laugh.
“Then it is true about the Russian prince?”
“Come, Lawrence, you have quite enough to do to attend to your domestic duties!” she retorted gaily. “Go home and show that letter to your wife—and—don’t meddle in my affairs. No man can serve two masters, you know.”
“Still, I think he might serve his friend without being in the least degree disloyal to his wife.”
“Perhaps, I really don’t know—but I fancy the interest of the two would clash occasionally. However, I am not going to try the experiment. But your wife will be wondering what has become of you. Good-by, Lawrence;” and she held out her hand to him with a softened air. “I should like you to tell Lady Gwendolyn from me, if you thought she would care for the confession, that I am very sorry to have misjudged her.”
“I know she will be pleased to hear that you have found out your mistake.”
“Then tell her by all means, and good-by once more.”
He kissed her hand affectionately, and was moving toward the door, when she called him back to say, with a flash of her old humor:
“A fellow I met at Nice told me that ere long there might be an heir to Borton Hall. Is it true?”
“Tell me about the Russian prince first. Is that true?”