Neva bowed haughtily.
“Since you have not confidence in my delicacy,” she said, “I will give the promise.”
Craven Black’s face flushed with something of triumph. He was still smarting with his anger and disappointment, still secretly foaming with a bitter rage, but he desired to show Neva that he was not at all crushed or humiliated.
“Thank you,” he said. “I shall rely upon that promise. The truth is, Miss Neva, a betrayal of my secret would cause me serious trouble. Ladies never pardon even a slight and temporary disaffection like mine. I am engaged to be married, and my promised bride is the most exacting of women. She would rage if she knew that I had looked with love upon one so many years her junior.”
“Indeed! You will marry Artress then?”
“Artress?” ejaculated Black, in well-counterfeited amazement. “What, marry the companion when I can have the mistress? No, indeed, Miss Neva. I am engaged to Lady Wynde!”
“To Lady Wynde—to my father’s widow?”
Black bowed assent.
Neva was astounded. She had been too busy with her friends since her return to Hawkhurst to detect the real object of Craven Black’s visits, and both Lady Wynde and Black had conspired to hoodwink her. She had never contemplated the possibility of Lady Wynde marrying for the third time. The idea almost seemed sacrilegious. Her father had seemed to her so grand and noble, so above other men, that she had not deemed it possible for a woman who had once been honored with his love to marry another.
“It is like Marie Louise, who married her chamberlain after having been the wife of Napoleon,” she thought. “It is incredible. I refuse to believe it!”