“What do you want with my husband now?” she asked. “I don’t see why you should fight him; anyhow, you can’t fight him till your arm is well.”
The duchess’ words struck on my ear and her dainty little figure was before my eyes, but my thoughts were absent from her.
“Don’t go, Mr. Aycon,” said she.
“I must go,” I said. “By this time he’ll be at the convent.”
A frown gathered on the duchess’ face.
“What concern is it of yours?” she asked. “I—I mean, what good can you do?”
“I can hardly talk to you about it” I began awkwardly; but the duchess saved me the trouble of finishing my sentence, for she broke in angrily:
“Oh, as if I believe that! Mr. Aycon, why are you going?”
“I’m going to see that the duke doesn’t”
“Oh, you are very anxious—and very good, aren’t you? Yes, and very chivalrous! Mr. Aycon, I don’t care what he does;” and she looked at me defiantly.
“But I do,” said I, and seeing my hat on the cabinet by the wall, I walked across the room and stretched out my hand for it. The duchess darted after me and stood between my hat and me.
“Why do you care?” she asked, with a stamp of her small foot.
There were, no doubt, many most sound and plausible reasons for caring—reasons independent of any private feelings of my own in
