At a loss,
she sat in silence awhile, a pucker on her white brow, her fingers
nervously drumming on the table. At last she flung herself headlong
against the impassive, polished front that he presented.
"I have come, monsieur, to beg you to put off this meeting."
She saw the faint raising of his dark eyebrows, the faintly regretful
smile that scarcely did more than tinge his fine lips, and she
hurried on. "What honour can await you in such an engagement,
monsieur?"
It was a shrewd thrust at the pride of race that she accounted his
paramount sentiment, that had as often lured him into error as it
had urged him into good.
"I do not seek honour in it, mademoiselle, but - I must say it
- justice. The engagement, as I have explained, is not of my
seeking. It has been thrust upon me, and in honour I cannot draw
back."
"Why, what dishonour would there be in sparing him? Surely,
monsieur, none would call your courage in question? None could
misapprehend your motives."
"You are mistaken, mademoiselle.
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