It was ten o'clock the next morning before he appeared at breakfast, and it was plain, even to the thrush on the lawn outside, that he had bestowed an elaboration upon his toilet that suggested either a duel or a wedding.
Madame de Morteyn hid her face, for she could not repress the smile that tormented her sweet mouth. Even the vicomte said: "Oh! You're not off for Paris, Jack, are you?"
After breakfast he wandered moodily out to the terrace, where his aunt found him half an hour later, mooning and contemplating his spotless gloves.
"Then you are not going to ride over to the Château de Nesville?" she asked, trying not to laugh.
"Oh!" he said, with affected surprise, "did you wish me to go to the Château?"
"Yes, Jack dear, if you are not too much occupied." She could not repress the mischievous accent on the "too." "Are you going to drive?"
"No; I shall walk—unless you are in a hurry."
"No more than you are, dear," she said, gravely.
He looked at her with sudden suspicion, but she was not smiling.
"Very well," he said, gloomily.