"It was not what they said to me, Countess, but what they left unsaid. I sha'n't tell you what they said."
"I think I can make a pretty good guess—"
"Well, you needn't!" I cried hastily, but too late. She would out with it.
"They accuse you of being a sad, sad dog, a foxy; bachelor, and a devil of a fellow. They all profess to be very much shocked, but they assure you that it's all right,—not to mind them. They didn't think you had it in you, and they're glad to see you behaving like a scamp. Oh, I know them!"
As a matter of fact, she was pretty near to being right. "All the more reason for you to be cautious and circumspect," said I boldly. "Pray think of my position, if not your own."
She gave me a queer little look and then smiled brightly. (She is lovely!)
"I'll promise to be good," she said.
"I only ask you to be careful," said I, blunderingly. She laughed aloud: her merriest, most distracting gurgle.
"And now will you be good enough to tell me who I am?" she asked, after a few minutes. "That is, who am I supposed to be?"
"Oh," said I uneasily, "you are really nobody. You are Britton's wife."