She was getting herself in hand. She looked at him quite fearlessly now, with eyes that pretended to forget they had ever been complaisant.
"The Count of Sampaolo," she argued calmly, "is not free to marry whom he will. He has his inheritance to regain, his mission to fulfil. I will never allow myself to be made an obstacle to that. He must marry no one but his cousin. I will never stand between him and her—between him and what is equally his interest and his duty."
But Anthony, too, was getting himself in hand.
"Look here," he said, with some peremptoriness. "You may just once for all eliminate my cousin from your calculations. I beg you to understand that even if you did n't exist, there could be no question of my cousin. No earthly consideration could induce me to make any sort of terms with that branch of my family—let alone a marriage. So!" A wave of the hand dismissed his cousin for ever to Crack-limbo. "But as you do exist, and as I happen to love you, and as I happen to have discovered—what I could never wildly have dared to hope—that you are not utterly indifferent to me, I may tell you that I intend to marry you—you—you. You imperial, adorable woman! You!"
Susanna hastily turned her eyes down the avenue.
"In fact," Anthony added, with serene presumption, "I have the honour to apprise you of our engagement."
She could n't repress a nervous little laugh. Then she rose.
"They 'll be expecting me at the house," she said, and moved in that direction.
"I 'm waiting for your congratulations," said he, walking beside her.
She gave another little laugh. And neither spoke again until they had reached the hall door, which he opened for her.