“Because I was not glad!” cried Danaë vehemently. “I was bowed down with shame—I could have died——”
“Oh, you are always talking about dying!” said Angeliké, altering her tactics skilfully to meet this surprise. “He is rich, and pleasant to look upon—though he has the face of a boy; I prefer men—and our father favours him.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Danaë.
“Promise not to tell—never to let out a word about it. Our father has chosen him for your bridegroom.”
Danaë flung up her arms wildly, then dropped them in despair. “Has he—has he spoken to him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I think not; but perhaps he has.” It was necessary to walk warily in dealing with such explosive material.
“Then he must not. Oh, Angeliké, sister mine, he must not! It is not the custom of the English. With them the man speaks first.”
“But he might be refused!” cried Angeliké, aghast at the idea of subjecting the nobler sex to such an indignity. “Are you sure? Who told you?”
“Sofia, the Lady Zoe’s maid. And she said that with them a woman whose parents spoke for her would be eternally despised. Nor would the man consent to marry her.”
“Well, of all the barbarous customs! But fear not, my sister. No man refuses what the Despot of Strio offers.”