“I think I know, my Lord, what you would say,” broke she in, laughingly. “You would like to have uttered something very neat on well-assorted unions. There could be no better authority on such a subject; but Count Pracontal is toleration itself: he lets me tell my friends that I am about to marry him for money, just as I married poor Colonel Bramleigh for love.”
“I am waiting for you, my Lord. We have already trespassed too far on her Ladyship's time and occupations.” The sneering emphasis on the last word was most distinct. Lord Culduff kissed Lady Augusta's hand with a most devoted show of respect, and slowly retired.
As the door closed after them, Pracontal fell at her feet, and covered her hand with kisses.
“There, there, Count, I have paid a high price for that piece of impertinence I have just uttered; but when I said it, I thought it would have given her an apoplexy.”
“But you are mine,—you are my own!”
“Noud en parlerons. The papers are full of breaches of promise; and if you want me to keep mine, you 'll not make it odious to me by tormenting me about it.”
“But, my Lady, I have a heart; a heart that would be broken by a betrayal.”
“What a strange heart for a Frenchman! About as suitable to the Boulevards Italiens as snow shoes to the tropics. Monsieur de Pracontal,” said she, in a much graver tone, “please to bear in mind that I am a very considerable item in such an arrangement as we spoke of. The whole question is not what would make you happy.”
Pracontal bowed low in silence; his gesture seemed to accept her words as a command to be obeyed, and he did not utter a syllable.
“Is n't she handsome?” cried she, at length. “I declare, Count, if one of your countrywomen had a single one of the charms of that beautiful face she 'd be turning half the heads in Europe; and Marion can do nothing with them all, except drive other women wild with envy.”