“I don’t know that it’s in anybody’s power to do,” answered Valencia. “Nothing, I should think! The thing’s done, and can’t be undone!”
“And what is done?” asked Mr. Fransemmery softly.
Valencia looked from one man to the other. Each was watching her attentively; each saw that she was somewhat excited and vexed, and probably angry.
“I may as well blurt it straight out!” she said suddenly. “My brother Harry is married to Poppy Wrenne!”
Again she glanced at the two men—this time enquiringly. Harborough became Sphinx-like in expression; Mr. Fransemmery took off his spectacles and began to polish them.
“Um!” he said, in still softer accents. “A secret marriage?”
“Of course!” exclaimed Valencia. “Three months ago—in London.”
“And known, until now, to nobody?” enquired Mr. Fransemmery.
“Yes, it was known!” said Valencia. “It was known to Mrs. Braxfield!”
“The bride’s mother!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery slowly. “Dear me! Really! And so—Poppy Wrenne is really Lady Markenmore?”