“And now,” said the count, laying a hand on each of my shoulders and pressing me gently towards an arm-chair, “I will tell you what has happened between Mr. Brunow and myself.”
“Never mind about Brunow just at present, sir,” I cried, recovering my wits a little; “I have other things to think of which are of greater moment.”
“Well, yes,” he answered, with a very sweet yet mournful smile, “I can believe so. Brunow will keep.”
“I am to understand, sir,” I asked, “that Miss Rossano accepts the offer of my hand?”
“Precisely,” said the count, nodding with his affectionate and melancholy smile.
“She knows my circumstances?”
“I will not say she knows them absolutely,” he replied, “but I think she has a fairly accurate knowledge of them.”
“I have an income of three hundred pounds a year.”
“So much as that?” he asked, with a dry, quaint look. It was so wise, so friendly, so childlike, so gay, so unlike the dull and dreadful aspect his face had worn when I had first known it that it affected me strongly, “My dear Fyffe,” he said, reaching his friendly hand out towards me once more, “why should we talk about money? If you can put Brunow out of your mind I can put money out of mine. My daughter loves me, and the man who saved me loves my daughter; and Violet—well, she shall speak for herself.”
I was so entirely happy that I could afford to take pity on my unsuccessful rival. When I thought how I should have felt if our cases had been reversed—if he had won and I had been rejected—I was willing to forgive him anything. I hoped that in course of time he would come to see how baseless his suspicions were, but in my joy I could nurse no anger against him. But I was eager to meet my promised wife, and he did not fill my thoughts for more than a passing moment.