"Who is 'he'?" asked Sir Maurice innocently. He watched a tell-tale blush steal up under Cleone's fingers.
"Mr.—Mr. Jettan—I—he—saw me kiss—Sir Deryk! Then—then—I think, to spare me—Sir Deryk said I was his betrothed wife. I could not say I was not, could I? It was too dreadful! And Phil—Mr. Jettan congratulated us! But James suddenly said he was going to marry me because I had said yes to him—by mistake! Of course I said I was not, but he wouldn't release me from my word, and nor would Sir Deryk! Then—then he—Ph—I mean Mr. Jettan—just bowed and went away, but I could see what he—thought of—of me. Oh, what shall I do? Neither will let me go! I am betrothed to two gentlemen, and—oh, what shall I do?"
Sir Maurice took a pinch of snuff. A smile hovered about his mouth. He shut the box with a snap.
"It seems, my dear, that the situation calls for a third gentleman," he said, and picked up his hat.
Cleone sprang to her feet.
"Oh—oh, what are you going to do?" she cried.
Sir Maurice walked to the door.
"It needs a masterful hand to extricate you from your delicate position," he said. "I go in search of such a hand."
Cleone ran to him, clasping his arm.
"No, no, no! Oh, for heaven's sake, Sir Maurice, stop!"