"But having begun wrongly—I could not undo the wrong."
"So you made it worse," said Fortescue gently.
"I would have married her in all honour—"
"In your own arrogant fashion, Tracy."
"As you say—in my own arrogant fashion, Frank. If I could go back a year—but where's the use? I am not whining. Presently I shall return to England and make my bow to—the Countess of Wyncham. Possibly, I shall not feel one jealous qualm. One never knows. At all events—I'll make that bow."
"You will?" Frank looked sharply down at him. "Nothing more, Tracy! You do not purpose—"
"Nothing more. You see, Frank—I love her."
"I crave your pardon. Yes—she would not take you, but she has, I think, made you. As I once told you, when love came you would count yourself as nought, and her happiness as everything."
For a moment his Grace was silent, and then back came the old smile, still cynical, yet with less of the sneer in it.
"How very pleasant it must be, Frank, to have one's prophecies so happily verified!" he purred. "Allow me to felicitate you!"