Her face was pale, her lips were dry, and she panted as she spoke.
But they had gained the gate of the villa where they were to call, and pushing it open he held it back with a low bow for her to pass. Her grey eyes, so full of grief and despair, met his for an instant, and she saw he was inexorable. Then she passed in up to the door, and a few minutes later found herself in the salon chatting with her voluble hostess, while Zertho sat with Madame’s two smart daughters, both true Parisiennes in manner, dress, and speech.
“We only heard to-day of your engagement to the Prince,” Madame Bertholet was saying in French. “We must congratulate you. I’m sure I wish you every happiness.”
“Thank you,” she said, with a forced smile. “It is extremely good of you.”
“And when and where do you marry?”
“In Brussels, in about three weeks,” Liane answered, striving to preserve an outward appearance of happiness. It was, however, but a sorry attempt. From the windows of their salon Madame Bertholet and her daughters had noticed the strange imploring look upon Liane’s face as they had approached the gate, and had wondered.
Yet when she had entered she had sparkled with fun and vivacity, and it was only the mention of marriage which had disarmed her.
“After Brussels you will, of course, go to your new home in Luxembourg,” said Madame. “Have you seen it?”
Liane replied in the negative.
“I happen to know Luxembourg very well. My brother, strangely enough, is one of the Prince’s tenants.”