Cyril had his revenge for all the unpleasantness of the morning, for Nadia, after one wild start, stood as if she had been turned to stone.
“Another girl?” she gasped at last. “Who is she? Do I know her? No; don’t tell me her name. I shall hear it quite soon enough, and I don’t want to hate her. Some princess? and she is to marry him?—and he is mine!”
“I am sure you must see,” Cyril went on quietly, “that both for her sake and his we must get this matter settled without any fuss.”
“If she marries him, I don’t think a little trouble would hurt her,” said Nadia, enviously.
“I hope it may be so. But you must remember that this marriage would be an arranged thing—a literal mariage de convenance, indeed. We could hardly expect her to feel towards Caerleon as—as you do, and although, if she cared for him, she might overlook even a scandal, yet if she did not, the merest whisper might turn her against him. Without considering her feelings in such a case at all, you must remember that it would be very painful indeed for Caerleon. I am sure you would not wish their married life to be unhappy.”
“If she married him for the sake of the crown, she would deserve to be unhappy,” said Nadia.
“I am afraid we must leave that to her own conscience,” said Cyril.
“Conscience!” cried Nadia, “and what of yours? If the King ever discovers what you have been doing this morning, I think—I should be almost sorry—even for you.”
“I leave myself in your hands, you see, in perfect confidence.”
“Oh yes, honour among thieves!” said Nadia, bitterly. “We are both plotting against the King, and therefore we may well keep faith with one another. Have you delivered all your messages now, Lord Cyril? If so, I must ask you to go, for I am busy. Pray ring for a waiter to attend you down-stairs.”