“She might not be, if it were not that there is another man——”
“Ce Monsieur Tor-ma-rin?”
“Yes, confound him!”
“We-ell”—with a long-drawn inflection compact of gentle irony. “You should be able to win against this Monsieur Tor-ma-rin. I think”—regarding him intently—“I think you will win.”
Burke shook his head gloomily.
“He had first innings. He met her abroad somewhere—rescued her in the snow or something. That rescuing stunt always pays with a woman. All I did”—with a short, harsh laugh—“was nearly to break her neck for her out driving one day recently!”
“Is she engaged to Monsieur Tormarin?” asked Madame do Varigny quickly.
“No. Luckily, there’s some old affair in the past holds him back.”
She nodded.
“You shall marry her,” she declared with conviction. “See, Monsieur Bewrke—aïe, aïe, quel nom! I am clairvoyante, prophétesse, and I tell you that you weel marry zis leetle brown Jean.”