"Where is the wedding-cake?—that white thing! ... thank you!"
For P. C. Breagh had picked the little parcel up and restored it to his hand. He took it, returned it to the envelope with the letter, and said with unsmiling gravity, striking a finger on the envelope:
"In the face of this—are you married, Mademoiselle?"
She answered him dauntlessly:
"No, Monseigneur!"
"Th-then," he asked, with his portentous lisp, "wh-why on earth did you—did you pretend to be?"
She answered with surprising quietude:
"To make my place in this house more secure."
"Ah! Might one ask why?"
He put the question with irony. She answered with astonishing composure and dignity: