"The fortnight is up," he said quietly. "I have come for my answer."
"Did you get my letters?" she asked slowly.
"Both. When I came to this morning. And I wasn't going to be called a fool for nothing, my lady—so I got up and came to look for you. What of the excellent Baxter? Is the date for your wedding fixed?"
She looked at him in silence for a moment, and then she began to laugh. "The ceremony in church takes place on his return from France in a week's time."
"Oh! no, it doesn't," said Vane grimly. "However, we will let that pass. May I ask if your entertainment to-night was indicative of the joy you feel at the prospect?"
She started to laugh again, and there was an ugly sound in it. A woman at the next table was looking at her curiously.
"Stop that, Joan," he said in a low, insistent voice. "For God's sake, pull yourself together. . . ."
She stopped at once, and only the ceaseless twisting of her handkerchief between her fingers betrayed her.
"I suppose it wouldn't do to go into a fit of high strikes," she said in a voice she strove vainly to keep steady. "The Mainwarings might think it was their champagne—or the early symptoms of 'flu—or unrequited love. . . . And they are so very respectable aren't they?—the Mainwarings, I mean?"
Vane looked at her gravely. "Don't speak for a bit. I'll get you another glass of champagne. . . ."