There was a stony silence. Coffee-cups hung suspended in the journey to mouths, and three pairs of eyes stared blankly at the smiling speaker.
“What—what the devil do you mean, sir?” demanded Lord Cecil, his coffee-cup shaking so violently that the contents overflowed.
“She's going over to Plattsburg with me to-day, and when she comes back she will be Mrs. Randolph Shaw. That's what I mean, your lordship.”
Three of his listeners choked with amazement and then coughed painfully. Feebly they set their cups down and gulped as if they had something to swallow. The duke was the first to find his tongue, and he was quite at a loss for words.
“B—by Jove,” he said blankly, “that's demmed hot coffee!”
“Is this true, Penelope?” gasped his lordship.
“Yes, Cecil. I've promised to marry him.”
“Good God! It is n't because you feel that you have no home with me?”
“I love him. It's a much older story than you think,” she said simply.
“I say, that hits me hard,” said the duke, with a wry face. “Still, I join in saying God bless you.”