“Good-morning,” cried Throckmorton—something in his tone showing triumph and happiness, and in his dark face was a fine red color. “Mrs. Temple, I came over to make a clean breast to you this morning!”
“About what?” asked Mrs. Temple, sedately.
They were both standing up, facing each other.
“About—Jacqueline.” Throckmorton spoke her name almost reverently.
A sudden light broke in upon Mrs. Temple. She grew perfectly rigid.
“Jacqueline!” she said, in an undescribable tone.
“Yes, Jacqueline,” answered Throckmorton, coolly. “I love her—I think she loves me—and she has promised to marry me. You may depend upon it, I shall make her keep her promise.”
Mrs. Temple remained perfectly silent for two or three minutes before recovering her self-possession.
“You are forty-four years old, George Throckmorton.”