“Gastineau,” he exclaimed, “do you know any real reason why I—I should take your warning?”
Gastineau had drawn his hand away sharply. “Nothing in the past,” he answered, “nothing for certain, at any rate. My only reason is my absolute certainty that you will repent this step if you take it.”
“Why should I?” Herriard demanded.
“That I cannot tell you. It will appear soon enough.” There seemed almost a threat behind the words.
“I will take my chance of that,” Herriard said, turning to go.
Gastineau’s voice, sharp to peremptoriness, stayed him. “You are going to marry the Countess Alexia?”
“I think so.”
“Think so? You are engaged?”
“Hardly. But I hope to be to-night.” Then to soften the tone of their leave-taking he added, “I am sorry I cannot expect your good wishes.”
Gastineau’s face seemed set hard as a dead man’s. “They could not be genuine,” he replied in a cold, incisive tone. “The best wish would be that this folly may come to nothing. And I think it will.”