"I don't expect he's a saint, guardy, but he's most attentive, polite and—nice."
"That's not every thing in a husband, Galva, let alone a consort for a queen. You see, I have to look after your destiny—it's my mission—and I feel we ought to be on our way."
"At once?"
"Well—say the day after to-morrow. Tell the duke if he wants to know your movements that you will be here at this hotel at the same time next year. We ought to be able to manage it by that time, whatever happens. I must ask you not to tell him where we are going. We don't know how the land lies over there at San Pietro, and we don't want any love-sick dukes monkeying round and getting in the way. You don't mind doing as I ask you, do you?"
"My dear guardy, I am in your hands entirely. I wouldn't like to think that I will never see Armand—I mean the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer again, but I'll do as you say, I know you are right, but I—I think he likes me."
"So I think, Galva. Really I have been afraid to be left alone with him for a week past. It would be a nice way to carry out my duty to Mr. Baxendale to give you to the first man we meet, even if he is a duke. Besides, if he means anything, he'll wait a year,—don't forget we're dining early, Galva, as we're going to the Porte Saint Martin."
Edward held the door open for her to pass out, then he turned and walked to the fireplace. For some moments he stood, his legs well apart and his back to the fire, communing with himself on his importance.
Then a half smile spread itself over his features as he took his mind back a few weeks to a dejected little bowed figure shuffling its way over London Bridge, and as he glanced round the sumptuous furnishings of the room he now found himself in and compared it to Belitha Villas, the smile broadened out and he rolled on the brocaded sofa in uncontrollable mirth. Then he sat up and drove his fist into a cushion of yellow satin.
"How dare I!" he cried to himself, "how dare I!—Edward Povey, you've made strides with a vengeance from the time when you were a poor little clerk at forty-five bob a week, when you can forbid a queen to marry a duke! Oh, what would Charlotte say?"
And the little man composed himself and went to his room to dress for dinner.