After we had talked for a minute or two, Count Anthony asked if I knew anything of “the fool,” as he was pleased to call his brother.

“I know nothing of your brother George, my lord, if it is him you mean.”

“He is no brother of mine, and if you wish to become a member of our family, you will cease to consider him your friend,” returned his Lordship, making an effort to conceal his anger.

I was not in the mood to take his remark kindly, therefore I answered warmly:—­

“Shall my entering the ranks of your noble family curtail my privilege of choosing my own friends?”

“No, with one exception,” he replied.

“The honor of the alliance is great, my lord, but I shall not consent to even one exception at your dictation.  Your sister, my future wife, loves her brother, and if she does not object to my friendship for him, your Lordship oversteps your authority, as head of your house, by protesting.”

He turned angrily upon me, saying:  “You have been paying your court with lukewarm ardor of late, Baron Clyde.  Perhaps you would not grieve if your friendship for a family outcast were to bar you from the family.”

“If your Lordship means to say that I wish to withdraw dishonorably from my engagement with your sister, I crave the privilege of telling you that you lie!”

I never was more calm in my life, and my words brought a cold smile to Hamilton’s lips.

“My friend De Grammont will have the honor of waiting on you to-morrow morning,” he answered, bowing politely.

“I shall be delighted to see his Grace,” I answered.  “Good night, my lord!”

Here was a solution of my problem in so far as it concerned my engagement with Mary Hamilton, for if I killed her brother, she would not marry me, and if he killed me, I could not marry her.  The fact that a gleam of joy came to me because of my unexpected release caused me to feel that I was a coward not to have broken the engagement in an honorable, straightforward manner rather than to have seized this opportunity to force a duel upon her brother.  It is true I had not sought the duel deliberately and had not thought it possible one second before uttering the word that made it necessary.  Still it was my act that brought it about, and I felt that I had taken an unmanly course.

After leaving Count Anthony I walked across the room to where Mary was standing at the outer edge of a circle of ladies and gentlemen who surrounded De Grammont, listening to a narrative in broken English, of his adventures, fancied or real, I know not which, but interesting, and all of a questionable character.

When I spoke to Mary, she turned and gave me her hand.  I had not expected the least display of emotion on her part; therefore I was not disappointed when the smile with which she greeted me was the same she would have given to any other man.  But Mary was Mary.  Nature and art had made her what she was—­charming, quiescent, and calm, not cold, simply lukewarm.