"That—"
"Go on. I beg of you."
"That I am dying to marry M. de Saint-Herem."
"Madame!" exclaimed the astonished duke, turning crimson with anger. "Madame!"
"What is the matter, my dear duke?" asked the princess quickly.
"Madame la comtesse," said the duke, forcing a smile, "your jest is—is rather unseemly, to say the least, and—"
"Give me your arm, my dear duke," said Madame Zomaloff, with the most natural air imaginable, "for it is late. We ought to have been at the embassy some time ago. It is all your fault, too. How is it that you, who are punctuality personified, did not strike the hour of eleven long ago."
"Ah, madame, I am in no mood for laughing," exclaimed the duke, in his most sentimental tones. "How your cruel jest pained me just now! It almost broke my heart."
"I had no idea your heart was so vulnerable, my poor friend."
"Ah, madame, you are very unjust, when I would gladly give my life for you."