I scribbled a note to Lady Merrenden—I would be delighted to see her in the morning at whatever time suited her. I would not go out at all, and I thanked her. It was much easier to write sweet things to her than to Robert.
When I was alone I could not eat. Véronique came in to try and persuade me. I looked so very pale, she said, she feared I had taken cold. She was in one of her “old mother” moods, when she drops the third person sometimes, and calls me “mon enfant.”
“Oh, Véronique, I have not got a cold, I am only wildly happy!” I said.
“Mademoiselle is doubtless fiancée to Mr. Carruthers. Oh! mon enfant adorée,” she cried, “que je suis contente!”
“Gracious no!” I exclaimed. This brought me back to Christopher with a start. What would he say when he heard?
“No, Véronique, to some one much nicer—Lord Robert Vavasour.”
Véronique was frightfully interested—Mr. Carruthers she would have preferred for me she admitted, as being more solid—more rangé—plus à la fin de ses bêtises, but, no doubt, “Milor” was charming too, and for certain one day Mademoiselle would be Duchesse. In the meanwhile what kind of coronet would Mademoiselle have on her trousseau?
I was obliged to explain that I should not have any—or any trousseau for an indefinite time, as nothing was settled yet. This damped her a little.
“Un frère de Duc, et pas de couronne!” After seven years in England she was yet unable to understand these strange habitudes, she said.