"That was the Countess Sophia Mirkoff," he supplemented calmly, "whose husband you pardoned from the Two Saints last month; Dalmorov informed me. Was that because you still care?"
"No; because I would not have her imagine I remember enough for prejudice," Stanief answered, with glacial indifference.
The approving fire shot across the boy's lowered eyes, his pride sprang to comprehension of the other's.
"I am glad it is so," he said sedately. "I have been arranging your marriage, cousin."
If the terrace had crumbled beneath them, Stanief could have been no more astounded than at this.
"I beg your pardon!" he gasped.
"Why not? It is my privilege," Adrian returned, not moving.
Stanief opened his lips, and closed them again. The green and gold garden, the blue river and white city spread below, swam in a dazzle of color. He had never been more deeply annoyed, or more furiously angry with Dalmorov. But habitual self-control again aided him.
"I have no desire to marry, or time to give to such a distraction at present, sire," he answered.
"You would have to marry sooner or later, cousin."