“Why, what do you mean?” she asked.
He laughed. “I should make a devil of a husband, aunt.”
“I believe you would,” she said slowly. “But — well, never mind.” They had come to the big door that gave on to the street. The porter swung it open and stood waiting. Lady Fanny gave her hand to the Marquis, who kissed it punctiliously. “Yes,” she said. “A devil of a husband. I am sorry for your wife — or I should be if I were a man.” On which obscure utterance she departed.
His lordship went back to the sunny room upstairs.
“I hope you did not engage her, mon petit?” Léonie said anxiously.
“Far from it,” replied the Marquis. “I think — but she became profound so that I cannot be sure — that she is now glad I am not going to marry my cousin.”
“I told her you would not. I knew you would not like it at all,” Léonie said.
His grace surveyed her blandly. “You put yourself to unnecessary trouble, my love. I cannot conceive that Juliana, who seems to me to have more sense than one would expect to find in a child of Fanny’s, would contemplate marriage with Vidal.”
The Marquis grinned. “As usual, sir, you are right.”
“But I do not think so at all,” objected Léonie. “And if you are right, then I say that Juliana is a little fool, and without any sense at all.”