“Welcome, my dear Bigler, welcome!” the Duke exclaimed, hurrying over to greet him; “you are surely Heaven sent.... Madame Spencer, I think you know the Count.”
She saw the look of sharp surprise that Bigler tried to hide by bowing very low, and she laughed gayly.
“Indeed, you do come in good time, my lord,” she said; “we were so put to for amusement we were reduced to playing tag around the room—don’t be shocked; you will be playing it too, if you are here for long.”
“If it carry the usual penalty,” he answered, joining in her laugh, “I am very ready to play it now.”
“Doubtless,” said the Duke dryly, motioning him to a chair. “But first, tell us the gossip of the Capital; we have heard nothing for weeks. What’s my dear cousin Armand up to—not dying, I fear?”
“Dying! Not he—not while there are any honors handy, with a doting King to shower them on him, and a Princess waiting for wife.”
The Duke’s face, cold at best, went yet colder.
“Has the wedding date been announced?” he asked.
“Not formally, but I understand it has been fixed for the twenty-seventh.”
Lotzen glanced at a calendar. “Three weeks from to-morrow—well, much may happen in that time. Come,” he said good-naturedly, shaking off the irritation, “tell us all you know—everything—from the newest dance at the opera to the tattle of the Clubs. I said you were Heaven sent—now prove it. But first—was it wise for you to come here? What will Frederick say?”