But it was utterly impossible, he told himself. Now that Dubard had fled, he must find other and secret means by which to acquaint her with the truth, and at the same time shield himself from the Frenchman’s crushing revenge.
He contrived to conceal the storm of emotion that tore his heart, and laughed with her about the unfounded rumours that had got abroad concerning her engagement, saying—
“Of course in a rural neighbourhood like this the villagers invent all kinds of reports based upon their own surmises.”
“Yes,” she declared. “They really know more about our business than we do ourselves. Only fancy! That I am engaged to marry Count Dubard—ridiculous!”
“Why ridiculous?” he asked, standing before her.
“Well—because it is!” she laughed, her fine eyes meeting his quite frankly. “I’m not engaged, Mr Macbean. So if you hear such a report again you can just flatly deny it.”
“I shall certainly do so,” he declared, “and I shall reserve my congratulations for a future occasion.”
She then turned the conversation to tennis, evidently being averse to the further discussion of the man who had courted and flattered her so assiduously—the man who was her father’s friend—and presently she took Macbean out across the lawn to introduce him to her father, who had seated himself in a long cane chair beneath the great cedar, and was reading his Italian paper.
His Excellency looked up as they approached, whereupon Mary exclaimed—
“This is Mr Macbean, father. He wishes to salute you. He was here yesterday playing tennis, but you were not visible.”