"Funny, wasn't it, sweetheart?"
The soft voice reached her through a buzz of other louder voices.
Priscilla moved slightly, but she did not turn her head.
"You will have to explain," she said. "I don't understand anything yet."
"Nor I," came the quiet retort. "It's the woman's privilege to explain
first, isn't it?"
Against her will, the blood rose in her face. She threw him a quick
glance.
"I can't possibly explain anything here," she said.
He met her look with steady eyes.
"Let me tell you the story of a fraud," he said; and proceeded without
further preliminary. "There was once a man--a second son, without
prospects and without fame--who had the good fortune to do a service to
a woman. He went away immediately afterwards lest he should make a fool
of himself, for she was miles above his head, anyway. But he never
forgot her. The mischief was done, so far as he was concerned."
He broke off, and raised his champagne to his lips as if he drank to a
memory.
Priscilla was listening, but her eyes were downcast. She wore the old,
absent look that her stepmother always deprecated. The soft drawl at her
side continued, every syllable distinct and measured.
"Years passed, and things changed. The man had belonged to a cadet
branch of an aristocratic British family. But one heir after another
died, till only he was left to inherit. The woman belonged to the older
branch of the family, but, being a woman, she was passed over. A time
came when he was invited by the head of the house to go and see his
inheritance. He would have gone at once and gladly, but for a hint at
the end of the letter to the effect that, if he would do his part, what
the French shamelessly call a _mariage de convenance_ might be arranged
between his cousin and himself--an arrangement advantageous to them both
from a certain point of view. He didn't set up for a paragon of
morality. Perhaps even, had things been a little different, he might
have been willing. As it was, he didn't like the notion, and he jibbed."
He paused. "But for all that," he said, his voice yet quieter and more
deliberate, "he wanted the woman, if he could make her care for him.
That was his difficulty. He had a feeling all along that the thing must
be an even greater offence to her than it was to him. He worried it all
through, and at last he worked out a scheme for them both. He called
himself by an old school _alias_, and came to her as a stranger----
"You're not eating anything, sweetheart. Wouldn't it be as well, just
for decency's sake? There's a comic ending to this story, so you mustn't
be sad. Who's that boy scowling at me on the other side of the table?
What's the matter with the child?"
"Never mind," murmured Priscilla hastily. "He doesn't mean anything.
Please go on."
He began to laugh at her with gentle ridicule.
"Impatient for the third act? Well, the scheme worked all right. But
it so chanced that the woman decided to be subtle, too. She knew him
for an old friend the instant she saw him. But he pretended to have
forgotten that old affair in New York. He didn't want her to feel in
any way under an obligation. So he played the humble stranger, and
she--sweetheart--she played the simple, country maiden, and she did it
to perfection. I think, you know, that she was a little afraid her name
and title would frighten him away."
"And so he humoured her?" said Priscilla, a slight quiver in her deep
voice.
"They humoured each other, sweetheart. That was where it began to be
funny. Now I am going to get you to tell me the rest of the story."
She turned towards him again, her face very pale.
"Yes; it's very funny, no doubt--funny for the man, I mean; for the
woman, I am not so sure. How does she know that he really cared for her
from the beginning; that he was always quite honest in his motive? How
can she possibly know this?"
Again for a moment their eyes met. There was no hint of dismay in the
man's brown face.
"She does know it, sweetheart," he answered, with confidence. "I can't
tell you how. Probably she couldn't, either. He was going to explain
everything, you know, under the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral. But for
some reason it didn't come off. He spent three solid hours waiting for
her, but she didn't come. She had found him out, perhaps? And was
angry?"
"Perhaps," said Priscilla, her voice very low.
Again he raised his glass to his lips.
"We will have the end of the story presently," he said; and deliberately
turned to his left-hand neighbour.