His immediate response was to throw himself into the armchair at her side, where he lounged for a moment without speaking, his legs stretched out, his arms locked behind his thrown-back head. Anna, her eyes on his face, waited quietly for him to speak.
“Well—of course it was just what one expected.”
“She takes it so badly, you mean?”
“All the heavy batteries were brought up: my father, Givre, Monsieur de Chantelle, the throne and the altar. Even my poor mother was dragged out of oblivion and armed with imaginary protests.”
Anna sighed out her sympathy. “Well—you were prepared for all that?”
“I thought I was, till I began to hear her say it. Then it sounded so incredibly silly that I told her so.”
“Oh, Owen—Owen!”
“Yes: I know. I was a fool; but I couldn’t help it.”
“And you’ve mortally offended her, I suppose? That’s exactly what I wanted to prevent.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “You tiresome boy, not to wait and let me speak for you!”
He moved slightly away, so that her hand slipped from its place. “You don’t understand,” he said, frowning.