Miss Challoner felt herself bound to say: “There is one person who met me at the Hôtel Charbonne, sir. The Vicomte de Valmé.”
“You can leave Bertrand to me,” interposed the Marquis. “This is all very well thought of, sir, but when does our marriage take place?”
“Your marriage, my son, takes place when Miss Challoner has had time to buy her bride-clothes. I shall leave you to decide the rest. My ingenuity falls short of planning your wedding trip.”
“You surprise me, sir. I shall take you into Italy, Mary. Will you come with me?”
“Yes, sir, with all my heart,” said Mary, smiling at him.
His hand went out to her across the table. The Duke said dryly: “Delay your affecting demonstrations a moment longer, Vidal. I have to inform you that your late adversary was, when I left England, on the road to recovery.”
“My late adversary?” frowned his lordship. “Oh, Quarles! Was he, sir?”
“You do not appear to feel any undue interest in his fate,” remarked Avon.
The Marquis was looking at Mary. He said casually: “It makes no odds to me now, sir. He can live for all I care.”
“How very magnanimous!” said his grace with gentle satire. “Perhaps it may interest you to learn that the gentleman has been — er — induced to make a statement which obviates the need for your exile.”