“You don’t think, Mr. Braybrooke, that Beryl is not here for the Wallace Collection? You don’t think that she is in love with someone in London?”
Francis Braybrooke was decidedly taken aback by this abrupt emotional outburst. He had not meant to provoke it. Indeed, in his preoccupation with Craven’s affairs and Adela Sellingworth’s possible indiscretions—really he knew of no gentler word to apply to what he had in mind—he had entirely forgotten that Fanny Cronin’s charming profession of sitting in deep arm-chairs, reposing on luxurious sofas, and lying in perfect French beds, might, indeed would, be drastically interfered with by Miss Van Tuyn’s marriage. It was very careless of him. He was inclined to blame himself almost severely.
“My dear Miss Cronin,” he hastily exclaimed. “If you were ever to think of changing your—your”—he could not find the word; “condition” would not do; “state of life” suggested the Catechism; “profession” was preposterous, besides, he did not mean that—“your sofa”—he had got it—“your sofa in the Avenue Henri Martin for a sofa somewhere else, I know of at least a dozen charming houses in Paris which would gladly, I might say thankfully, open their doors to receive you.”
This was really a lie. At the moment Braybrooke did not know of one. But he hastily made up his mind to be “responsible” for Fanny Cronin if anything should occur through his amiable machinations.
“Thank you, Mr. Braybrooke. You are kindness itself. So, then, Beryl is going to marry! And she never hinted it to me, although we talked over marriage only yesterday, when I gave her Bourget’s views on it as expressed in his ‘Physiologie de l’amour moderne.’ She never said one word. She never—”
But at this point Braybrooke felt that an interruption, however rude, was obligatory.
“I have no reason whatever to suppose that Miss Van Tuyn is thinking of marriage at this moment,” he said, in an almost shrill voice.
“But surely you would not frighten me without a reason,” said Fanny Cronin with mild severity, sitting back again in her chair.
“Frighten you, dear Miss Cronin! I would not do that for the world. What have I said to frighten you?”
“You talked of my changing my sofa for a sofa somewhere else! If Beryl is not going to marry why should I think of changing?”