“But marriage—me?” He laid a finger on his breast and tapped on the top button of his waistcoat, regarding me from beneath raised brows. His expression was that of an intelligent person who can not believe that he has heard aright. It made me angry.
“Yes, you. I could hardly be alluding to anybody else after what you’ve just said.”
“But, my dear lady—” he sent a roving glance round the room as if hunting for some one who would explain, then came back to me. As he met my eyes he smiled, deprecatingly, almost tenderly, the smile with which maturity greets the preposterous antics of a child. “Is it a joke you make?”
“No, it is not,” I answered, “and I don’t see why you should think it was. When you love a person you marry them, don’t you?”
“Alas, not always. I could never marry Miss Harris. She is not of my order.”
“Order?” I was the one who ejaculated now.
“Exactly. Whomever I may love I only marry in my order.”
My inspiration collapsed, pierced by this unexpected and unfamiliar word. For a moment we sat regarding each other. I don’t know how I looked but I don’t think it could have been as abject as I felt or the count, who is one of the most amiable of youths, would have wanted to know what was the matter. If I had had my wits about me I should have pretended it was a joke but I was too ashamed and crushed to pretend anything. In the embarrassing pause I tried to smile, a feeble propitiatory smile, which he answered in kind, brightly and reassuringly. I saw he expected me to go on, and I didn’t know how to go on except to argue it out with him.
“What does your order matter if you love a person?”
“But everything. It is, as you say here, what we’re there for.”