She did not start, did not move a muscle for a moment, then she got up.
"Wait a minute, I want a cigarette."
She crossed the room to an inlaid cabinet, and took out a silver box—of course a present—and got a cigarette from it, and her hand shook so that for a moment she could not hold the match straight.
But when she glided back to her place at his feet her hand was steady, and seeing that his face was rather pale, she showed no sign of emotion, either of surprise, or anger, or resentment.
"Going to be married?" she said, leaning back. "To Lady Eleanor, I suppose?"
"No," said Yorke, emphatically. "Why should you think that?"
He was relieved, greatly relieved by the quiet way in which she had taken the announcement, and, man like, was completely deceived.
"Oh, I don't know. Everybody said you were going to marry her. She has plenty of money and is a swell. So, it's not her?" she said, slowly, her eyes downcast.
"No, it is not," he responded. "And there's no reason why people should say——." He stopped, conscience-smitten.
"Oh, they say it because you and she are so much together, and you've made love to her; but that means nothing with you, does it?" she said, shooting a glance up at him.