A slight tremor seemed to invade the voice of Mrs. Arbuthnot. I was fain to believe that such a display of sensibility was extremely honourable to her. For, even judged as a mere human entity, our guest was quite apart from the ordinary, and it would have implied a measure of obtuseness not to recognise that fact.
Taking one consideration with another, I felt the hour was ripe to let Mrs. Arbuthnot into the secret. As things were going so well, it was perhaps not strictly necessary; yet at the same time I had a premonition that I should not be forgiven if the wife of my bosom was kept too long in innocence of our visitor's romantic lineage.
"That cigarette of yours," said I, "means another pipe for me, although you know quite well that it makes me so bad-tempered in the morning. But I think I ought to tell you something—that is if you will swear by all your gods not to breathe a word to a living soul, not even to Mary Catesby."
Mrs. Arbuthnot pricked up her ears properly.
"Why, of course. You mean it is something about this Mrs. Fitz? I know it."
"What do you know?"
"I can't explain it, but as soon as I spoke to her it came upon me that she was something quite deep and mysterious."
"Well, it happens that she is. Things are not always what they seem. I am going to give you a guess."
"There is something Grand-Duchessy about her. You remember that woman we met at Baden-Baden? In some ways she is rather like her."
"And do you remember your old friend the King of Illyria?—'the old johnny with the white hair,' to quote Joseph Jocelyn De Vere."