“When will this marriage be solemnized?” she asked.
He laughed rather curtly. “Never, I hope.”
She gave him a quick look. “So—the wound still hurts. I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be unkind. I was only thinking that, if the decree were not yet made, the wedding would be sure to bring it.”
He put his arm around her waist and drew her over until the black hair pressed his shoulder.
“Nay, Madeline, you are quite wrong,” he said. “The Princess is nothing to me now—nothing but the King’s daughter and the American’s chief advocate. I meant what you did:—that the marriage will lose me the Crown.”
For a moment she suffered his embrace, watching him the while through half closed eyes; then she drew away.
“I suppose there is no way to prevent the marriage,” she remarked, her gaze upon the fire.
He arose and, crossing to the table, found a cigarette.
“Can you suggest a way?” he asked, his back toward her, the match aflame, poised before his face.
She had turned and was watching him with sharp interest, but she did not answer, and when he glanced around, in question, she was looking at the fire.