“If she is,” he answered, “I am convinced that there are circumstances in connexion with that marriage which would make a divorce easy.”
“You would marry a divorcée?” she asked.
“I would marry your sister anyhow, under any circumstances,” he answered.
She looked at him curiously.
“I want to ask you a question,” she said abruptly. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?”
He hesitated.
“I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. Something has happened to change her marvellously, either that, or she wilfully deceived me and every one else in those days as to her real self. She was a much lighter and more frivolous person, very charming and companionable—but with a difference—a great difference. I wonder whether you would mind, Lady Ferringhall,” he went on, with a sudden glance at her, “if I tell you that you yourself remind me a great deal more of what she was like then, except of course that your complexion and colouring are altogether different.”
“I am highly flattered,” she remarked, with subtle irony.
“Will you help me?” he asked.
“What can I do?”