But he was checked by the Princess Michelle’s voice at his elbow.
“Put that down, Mr. Egremont,” said she; “all this day has the Queen gone without a fire herself that the gentlemen and ladies might have one in the saloon.”
Roger put the log down at once.
“I wish I had the forests of Egremont to draw upon,” he said, and then followed it up by saying in a quiet voice, but with rapture in his eyes,—
“Do you know, mademoiselle, that I am to have the honor of accompanying you and Madame de Beaumanoir, with the Duke of Berwick, to Orlamunde,—that is, if you will graciously permit me.”
Michelle had been smiling at him across the fireplace, one of her little feet upon the fender and her fan shading her face from the glow of the embers. She wore a rich gown of puce-colored brocade, and the lace of the half-sleeve, falling back, revealed her delicate white arm. Roger saw the hand that held the fan tremble; she suddenly grew pale, and her arm dropped by her side.
“You—you—” she stammered; “Berwick, then, has selected you.”
“Subject, of course, to the approval of yourself, mademoiselle, and Madame de Beaumanoir,” replied Roger, promptly and stiffly. “It will not be necessary for you to make a formal objection,—a word, a look, and I would rather die than go with you to Orlamunde.”
“I did not mean what you think,” said Michelle, after a pause, and in her sweetest voice. “I wish you to go. Remember that the Duke of Berwick takes his orders on this journey, not from me but from the King of France—and so he had not spoken your name to me. But I shall esteem it a favor if you will go.”
Roger’s face assumed a discontented expression. He knew women well, did this young gentleman, and thought when Michelle so freely expressed a wish for him to accompany her that she did not care a fig whether he went or not. So, although wild horses could scarcely have held him back from that coveted journey in her company, he said debonairly,—