Miss Challoner regarded him in frank wonderment. “Is my grandfather in Paris then, sir?”
“Certainly,” said his grace. “I should tell you, my child, that officially you are in his company.”
“Am I, sir?” Miss Challoner blinked at him. “Then you did meet him at Newmarket?”
“Let us say, rather, that he came to find me at Newmarket,” he amended. “He is staying in an hôtel which he has hired for some few weeks. You, my dear Mary, are at present keeping to your room, on account of some slight disorder of the system. The betrothal between yourself and my son is of long, though secret standing. Hitherto” — his grace touched his lips with his napkin, and laid it down. “Hitherto, both Sir Giles and myself have refused our consent to your marriage.”
“Have you?” said Mary, quite fascinated.
“Obviously. But Vidal’s banishment to France so attacked your sensibilities, my dear child, that you seemed to be in danger of going into a decline. This induced Sir Giles and myself to relent.”
“Oh, no!” begged Miss Challoner. “Not a decline, sir! I am not such a poor creature!”
“I am desolated to be obliged to contradict you, Mary, but you were certainly on the brink of a decline,” said Avon firmly.
Miss Challoner sighed. “Well, if you insist, sir ... What next?”
“Next,” said Avon, “the Duchess and myself come to Paris to grace the ceremony with our presence. We have not yet arrived, but we shall do so in a day or two. I imagine we are somewhere in the neighbourhood of Calais at the moment. When we do arrive we shall hold a rout-party in your honour. You will be formally presented to society as my son’s future wife. Which reminds me, that I cannot sufficiently praise your admirable discretion in refusing to go about when you sojourned with my cousin Elisabeth.”