“You love her?”
He smiled at the abruptness of her question. She was leaning back, regarding him with her keen, dark eyes, and holding her cigarette daintily between her bejewelled fingers.
“She has promised to become my wife,” he answered.
A strange look crossed her features. There was something of surprise mingled with anger; but in an instant she hid it beneath a calm, sphinx-like expression.
“I fear she will never marry you,” she said, with a sigh.
“Why?”
“Because of her engagement to the Prince d’Auzac.”
“I care nothing for that,” he cried, in anger at mention of his rival’s name. “We love each other, and will marry.”
“Such a course is impossible,” she answered, in a deep impressive voice. “It would be far better if you returned to London—better for you both—for she cannot marry you.”
“Why?” he demanded. He suddenly recollected that from this mysterious woman who knew so much of their personal affairs he might obtain knowledge of the secret his well-beloved had refused to disclose. “Why cannot she abandon him, and marry the man she loves?”