“Ill,” he said, starting.
“Quite! But soon recovered!” And Susan launched into a narration of the events that had taken 472 place while he was in Mexico, to which he listened with the composure of a man who, having had his share of the vagaries of fate, is not to be taken aback by new surprises, however singular or tragic. Susan expected an expression of regret––by look or word––over the loss of the marquis’ fortune, but either he simulated indifference or passed the matter by with philosophical fortitude.
“Poor Barnes!” was his sole comment.
“Yes; it was very lonely for Constance at first,” rattled on Susan. “But I fancy she will find a woman’s solace for that ailment,” she added meaningly.
“Marriage?” he asked soberly.
“Well, the engagement is not yet announced,” said Susan, hesitatingly. “But you know how things get around? And the count has been so attentive! You remember him surely––the Count de Propriac? But I must be off. I have an appointment with my husband and am already half an hour late.”
“Don’t let me detain you longer, then, I beg.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. He’s so delightfully jealous when I fail to appear on the stroke of the clock! Always imagines I am in some misch––but I mustn’t tell tales out of school! So glad to have met you! Come and see me––do!”
And Susan with friendly hand-clasp and lingering look, tore herself away, the carnival lightness in her feet and the carnival laughter in her eyes.
“He is in love with her still,” she thought, “or he wouldn’t have acted so indifferent!” Her mind reverted 473 to a cold little message she had received from Constance. “And to think he was innocent after all!” she continued, mentally reviewing the contents of the letter in which Constance had related the conversation with the lawyer. “I don’t believe he’ll call on her now, though, after––Well, why shouldn’t I have told him what every one is talking about? Why not, indeed?”