"Well, then?"—still monotonously.
"Well, then?" Jean stormed furiously, clenching his fists, "it can be nothing but that cursed Valmain and his damned jealousy! It can be nothing but a lie, all of it, that he has made up! It is all a lie then—nothing but a lie! And so I am not through with him! He will answer for it! I am not through with him! It will not be with swords this time—we will fight with pistols, and I will kill him! He thinks he has no longer any reason to hide and stay away—but, nom de Dieu, he will see! I promise you that! Vinailles told me that Valmain would be back the day after to-morrow, and"—he laughed out harshly—"the day after to-morrow—"
"You are going to America," said Myrna calmly.
Jean's clenched fist, raised, remained motionless in mid-air. He stared at her open-mouthed.
"To—to America!" he gasped.
"To be married there," supplemented Myrna composedly.
"To be married there!"—he repeated the words in his bewilderment like a parrot.
"And to receive an ovation, to be accorded a triumph such as you have never dreamed of." Her laugh trilled out deliciously. "You will see how they do things in America!"
He was still staring at her in dumfounded amazement.
"To America—to be married—a triumph!" he mumbled dazedly. "But—but who—"