“I shall make him marry Letty Foulton,” she answered.
“Can you do it?” he demanded.
“He must marry her or go,” she declared. “I will make that quite clear.”
Macheson drew a little breath. He suddenly realized that for all his impetuosity, the woman who walked so calmly by his side held the cards. He slackened his pace. The lane had narrowed now, and on either side of them was a tall holly hedge. Her hand stole through his arm.
“Well,” she said softly, “you have not told me yet whether your pilgrimage to Paris was a success.”
He turned upon her almost fiercely.
“Yes!” he answered. “It was! A complete success! I haven’t an atom of sentiment left! Thank goodness!”
She laughed softly.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered in his ear. “You went abroad to be cured of an incurable disease. Do you imagine that the Mademoiselle Rosines of the world count for anything? You foolish, foolish person. Do you imagine that if I had not known you—I should have let you go?”
“I am not one of your tenants,” he answered grimly.