circled the group of graves. Her eye had bidden me, and I followed no less briskly. I heard a despairing sigh from the poor old lady, but she had no chance of overtaking us. The audacious movement was successful.
“Now we can talk,” said the duchess.
And talk she did, for she threw at me the startling assertion:
“I believe you’re falling in love with Mlle. Delhasse. If you do, I’ll never speak to you again!”
“If I do,” said I, “I shall probably accept that among the other disadvantages of the entanglement.”
“That’s very rude,” observed the duchess.
“Nothing with an ‘if’ in it is rude,” said I speciously.
“Men must be always in love with somebody,” said she resentfully.
“It certainly approaches a necessity,” I assented.
The duchess glanced at me. Perhaps I had glanced at her; I hope not.
“Oh, well,” said she, “hadn’t we better talk business?”
“Infinitely better,” said I; and I meant it.
“What am I to do?” she asked, with a return to her more friendly manner.
“Nothing,” said I.
It is generally the safest advice—to women at all events.
“You are content with the position? You like being at the hotel perhaps?”
“Should I not be hard to please, if I didn’t?”
