After breakfast she went to her room—to have her hair dressed, she said—and I led Harry to a secluded corner of the magnificent grounds surrounding the hotel. During the walk we were both silent: Harry, I suppose, was wondering what I was going to say, while I was trying to make up my own mind.
"I suppose," he began abruptly, "you are going to tell me I have acted like a fool. Go ahead; the sooner it's over the better."
"Nothing of the sort," said I, glad that he had opened it.
He stopped short, demanding to know what I meant.
"Of course," I continued, "Le Mire is a most amazing prize. Not exactly my style perhaps, but there are few men in the world who wouldn't envy you. I congratulate you.
"But there were two things I feared for several reasons—Le Mire's fascination, your own youth and impulsive recklessness, and the rather curious mode of your departure. I feared first and most that you would marry her; second, that you would achieve odium and publicity for our name."
Harry was regarding me with a smile which had in it very little of amusement; it held a tinge of bitterness.
"And so," he burst out suddenly, "you were afraid I would marry her! Well, I would. The last time I asked her"—again the smile—"was this morning."
"And—"
"She won't have me."