“Yes,” she answered, simply. “So long as you succeed, I do not see that it can matter who you are.”
“And if I succeed,” pursued Loo, gravely, “will you marry me, Mademoiselle?”
“Oh! I never said that,” in a voice that was ready to yield to a really good argument.
“And if I fail—” Barebone paused for an instant. He still doubted his own perception. “And if I fail, you would not marry me under any circumstances?”
“I do not think my father would let me,” she answered, with her eyes cast down upon her lace-frame.
Barebone leant forward to put together the logs, which burnt with a white incandescence that told of a frosty night. The Marquis had business in the town, and would soon return from the notary’s, in time to dress for dinner.
“Well,” said Loo, over his shoulder, “it is as well to understand each other, is it not?”
“Yes,” she answered, significantly. She ignored the implied sarcasm altogether. There was so much meaning in her reply that Loo turned to look at her. She was smiling as she worked.
“Yes,” she went on; “you have told me your secret—a secret. But I have the other, too; the secret you have not told me, mon ami. I have had it always.”
“Ah?”