“Precisely my opinion; but why, in the name of—no, I'll not swear; but why were you going to marry him, Leoline?”
Leoline half pouted, and shrugged her pretty pink satin shoulders.
“Because I couldn't help it—that's why. He coaxed, and coaxed; and I said no, and no, and no, until I got tired of it. Prudence, too, was as bad as he was, until between them I got about distracted, and at last consented to marry him to get rid of him.”
“My poor, persecuted little darling! Oh,” cried Sir Norman, with a burst of enthusiasm, “how I should admire to have Count L'Estrange here for about ten minutes, just now! I would spoil his next wooing for him, or I am mistaken!”
“No, no!” said Leoline, looking rather alarmed; “you must not fight, you know. I shouldn't at all like either of you to get killed. Besides, he has not married me; and so there's no harm done.”
Sir Norman seemed rather struck by that view of the case, and after a few moments reflection on it, came to the conclusion that she knew best, and settled down peaceably again.
“Why do you suppose his name is not Count L'Estrange?” he asked.
“For many reasons. First—he is disguised; wears false whiskers, moustache, and wig, and even the voice he uses appears assumed. Then Prudence seems in the greatest awe of him, and she is not one to be easily awed. I never knew her to be in the slightest degree intimidated by any human being but himself and that mysterious woman, La Masque.
“Ah! you know La Masque, then?”
“Not personally; but I have seen her as I did you, you remember,” with an arch glance; “and, like you, being once seen, is not to be forgotten.”