“Ah!” I laughed, “you certainly had no cause. It is true that we have been good friends ever since the day when she arrived home from the convent-school at Bruges, a prim young miss with her hair tied up with ribbon. Thrown constantly together, as we were, I became her male confidant and intimate friend; hence my licence to give her counsel in many matters and sometimes to criticise those actions of which I don’t approve.”
“Then if that is so, you care a little for her—just a little? Now admit it.”
“I don’t admit anything of the kind,” I answered frankly. “For five years we have been constantly together; and times without number, at Lady Barmouth’s request, I have acted as her escort here and there, until she looks upon me as a kind of necessary appendage who has a right to chaff her about her flirtations and annoy her by judicious sarcasm. I don’t entertain one single spark of love for her. In brief, she has developed into an essentially smart girl, in the true sense of the word, and by reason of our constant companionship knows that to attempt a flirtation with me would result in a most dismal failure. I accused her once, not long ago, of having designs upon my heart, whereupon she replied that to accomplish such a thing would be about as easy as to win the affection of the bronze Neptune in the garden-fountain of the Embassy.”
“You have been seen together a great deal of late?”
“Who told you so?”
“A friend who knows you both.” Then she added: “From my information I hear that last season you danced so much with her and were so constantly at her side that people were talking of a match between you.”
“Ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “Of course gossips are always too ready to jump to ill-formed conclusions. As one of the staff of the Embassy, and her most intimate male friend, it was only courtesy to take her beneath my care. When she had no other partner and wanted to dance, then she sometimes asked me. I think she did it to annoy me, for she knew that I was never fond of dancing.”
“Do you remember the Countess of Flanders’ balls at Brussels—how we danced together?” she remarked.
“Remember them!” I echoed. “They were in the golden days when everything seemed to our eyes couleur de rose—the days when our love was perfect.”