“I have,” said Fortinbras, “but Félise hasn’t.”
“You shall dine again. It’s the first time you have condescended to visit me, and I exact the penalty.”
She went to the open door whence she had issued.
“Céleste!”—the maid appeared—“Monsieur and Mademoiselle are dining with me and Mademoiselle is staying the night. See she has all she wants. Allez vite. Go, my dear, with Céleste, and be quick, for dinner’s getting cold.”
And when Félise, subdued by her charming masterfulness, had retired in the wake of the maid, Miss Merriton turned on Fortinbras.
“Now, what’s the trouble?”
In a few words he told her what was meet for a stranger to know.
“So she ran away and came to you for protection and you can’t put her up? Is that right?”
“The perch of an old vulture like myself,” said he, “is no fit place for my daughter.”
Lucilla nodded. “That’s all right. But, say—you don’t approve of this mediæval sort of marriage business, do you?”