"Of course I shall. You must not trouble about this at all, Comtesse. It is the merest scratch, and was a pure accident. He is an excellent fellow, Mr.—er—Dodd is his name, is it not? Only pity is he did not shoot his wife, poor fellow!"
Again, as on a former occasion, the admirable sang-froid of my kinsman carried things smoothly along. I felt quite calmed when I looked up at him.
"We won't try sitting on that sofa to-night," I laughed. "This is a fairly comfortable arm-chair. You are an invalid. You must sit in it. See, I shall sit here," and I drew a low seat of a dreadfully distorted Louis XV. and early Victorian mixed style that the upholsterer, when bringing the things, had described to me as a "sweet, pretty lady's-chair."
Antony sat down. The light from the lily electric branches made the gray in his hair shine silver. He looked tired and not so mocking as usual.
"I have settled with your husband when you are to come to Dane Mount.
He says the 4th of November will suit him."
"We shall drive over, I suppose?"
"Yes."
After that we neither of us spoke for a few moments.
"Did you read La Rochefoucauld last night?" I asked, presently.
"No."