“I am engaged.”
“Engaged!” He sprang to his feet. “Engaged! Ah, no, I will not believe it. You were engaged when you came here?”
She was no little alarmed by the violence which he threw into his words. At the same time, she was indignant. And yet a mischievous sprite within her led her on to tell him the truth.
“No, I am going to marry Mr. Howard Spence, although I do not wish it announced.”
For a moment he stood motionless, speechless, staring at her, and then he seemed to sway a little and to choke.
“No, no,” he cried, “it cannot be! My ears have deceived me. I am not sane. You are going to marry him—? Ah, you have sold yourself.”
“Monsieur de Toqueville,” she said, “you forget yourself. Mr. Spence is an honourable man, and I love him.”
The Vicomte appeared to choke again. And then, suddenly, he became himself, although his voice was by no means natural. His elaborate and ironic bow she remembered for many years.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” he said, “and adieu. You will be good enough to convey my congratulations to Mr. Spence.”
With a kind of military “about face” he turned and left her abruptly, and she watched him as he hurried across the lawn until he had disappeared behind the trees near the house. When she sat down on the bench again, she found that she was trembling a little. Was the unexpected to occur to her from now on? Was it true, as the Vicomte had said, that she was destined to be loved amidst the play of drama?