“That is very likely,” I admitted.
“Think, then,” she cried, “how agreeably she will be surprised when she sees you! Unless indeed she has already lost her heart to some handsome fellow of Poitiers.”
“I trust not,” I said. “I trust not.”
“And why?” she queried sharply.
“I would not wish her to be unhappy also.”
She sat a moment silent at that.
“You mean that even if she has,” she asked at last, “you will hold her to the betrothal?”
“Oh, no!” I answered, instantly; “she would be free—that is, if she chose to be free.”
“If she chose to be?”
“Her father would hold her to her oath,” said I.