“Oh, well, I sha’n’t be here long,” she answered, and her face became more sombre as she spoke.
“That man—who was with you yesterday. Surely he—he was not—is not—” stammered Bayre, reddening as he put the mutilated fragment of a question.
She nodded gloomily.
“Yes,” said she, looking away from him and shivering slightly. “That is Monsieur Blaise, whom my guardian has chosen as my husband.”
“But you will never marry him—you?”
She frowned petulantly.
“Oh, how can I tell? I suppose so,” she said.
“You will be miserable!”
“Shall I? I don’t know. Can anybody ever tell those things? No doubt he is a good man, and my guardian is anxious, very anxious, for my marriage.”
“Why?”