"It is of no consequence that we be happy, Madam. I give you back your own words about yon torch of principles."
For a time she sat and looked at me steadily. There was, I say, some sort of radiance on her face, though I, dull of wit, could neither understand nor describe it. I only knew that she seemed to ponder for a long time, seemed to resolve at last. Slowly she rose and left me, parting the satin draperies which screened her boudoir from the outer room. There was silence for some time. Perhaps she prayed,—I do not know.
Now other events took this situation in hand. I heard a footfall on the walk, a cautious knocking on the great front door. So, my lord Pakenham was prompt. Now I could not escape even if I liked.
Pale and calm, she reappeared at the parted draperies. I lifted the butts of my two derringers into view at my side pockets, and at a glance from her, hurriedly stepped into the opposite room. After a time I heard her open the door in response to a second knock.
I could not see her from my station, but the very silence gave me a picture of her standing, pale, forbidding, rebuking the first rude exclamation of his ardor.
"Come now, is he gone? Is the place safe at last?" he demanded.
"Enter, my lord," she said simply.
"This is the hour you said," he began; and she answered:
"My lord, it is the hour."
"But come, what's the matter, then? You act solemn, as though this were a funeral, and not—just a kiss," I heard him add.