“I should be more than base to say falsely that she had done anything so absurd,” said the Countess, indignantly.
“Where is she now?” asked Lorry.
“In her boudoir. The Prince Lorenz is with her—alone.”
“What!” he cried, jealousy darting into his existence. He had never known jealousy before.
“They are betrothed,” said she, with an effort. There was a dead silence, broken by Lorry's deep groan as he turned and walked blindly to the opposite side of the room. He stopped in front of a huge painting and stared at it, but did not see a line or a tint.
“You don't mean to say she has accepted?” half whispered Anguish.
“Nothing less.”
“Thank God, you are only a Countess,” he said, tenderly.
“Why—why—what difference can it make! I mean, why do you say that?” she stammered, crimson to her hair.
“Because you won't have to sell yourself at a sacrifice,” he said, foolishly. Lorry came back to them at this juncture, outwardly calm and deliberate.