“Indeed! I hope it is honourable.”
“Honourable, inasmuch as it profits her as well as myself.”
“What is it?”
Bromley bent forward to listen, but the Count spoke in too low a tone.
“Good heaven! Achille! Have you stooped to this?” cried the actress.
“Come, no heroics, belle dame. I hear the music of the dance, and I go to pulverise my rival.”
“Have we fallen as low as this?” murmured the actress. Bromley heard a window open, the retreating steps of the Count, and the chords of the distant music. Noiselessly he left the theatre, and hurried to the lawn.
The Count had reached Constance about a minute before him. She was standing with her mother apart from the dance. No one was near the group as Bromley approached.
“This is my dance, Miss Constance,” he observed, offering his arm.
“Forgive me, Monsieur Bromley. It is mine.”