“Thanks, Adolphe,” replied Hugh. “All I desire is that our future may be as bright and cloudless as to-day.”
“What can mar it? Why, nothing! You and Valérie love one another—I suspected it from the first,” he remarked, laughing. “You will marry, settle down in comfort and happiness, and grow old and grey, like—like the couple in your English song—Darby and Joan.”
They laughed merrily in chorus.
“I don’t much admire your prophecy. It’s bad form to speak of a woman growing old,” observed Valérie reprovingly. “Nevertheless, I’m confident we shall be as happy as the pair in the song. And when we’re married, I’m sure Hugh will welcome you as one of our dearest friends.”
“Of course,” answered Trethowen. “Adolphe and the Count will always be welcome at Coombe. By Jove, when I get them down there I’ll have my revenge at baccarat, too.”
“Why, look, here’s the Count coming after us,” exclaimed Valérie, suddenly catching sight of a distant figure in a grey tweed suit and white waistcoat. “Come, let’s go and meet him.”
So the trio started off in that direction.
After meeting him they emerged from the avenue into the Place Royale, and Trethowen left them for a moment to purchase some cigars.
“I’ve had a visitor to-day,” mademoiselle exclaimed, as she strolled on with Victor and Pierre; “some one you both know.”
“Who?” asked the men eagerly.