into the room unheard by us, and was staring at her daughter in anger and amazement.
I was a little breathless after that long kiss, but I came to my feet with the best grace that I could muster and said, with a solemnity due to the occasion:
“I know that I appear to have abused your hospitality shamelessly and—and that, before addressing myself to Daphnis, I should have gained the consent of your husband and yourself. But—well, I hope that you will forgive my impetuousness when I tell you that Daphnis and I love each other, and that she has just consented to become my wife.”
Madame Diamopholus stood there, with her mouth half-open,staring at me as though I had gone crazy; but I had hardly finished speaking when a newcomer violently projected himself into the midst of this good old Lyceum drama family scene. He was a thickset, olive-faced young man with black piercing eyes, and had evidently been just behind Madame Diamopholus as she entered the room, but had remained hidden from me until that moment by the open door.
“What you make ’ere wiz my fiancé?” he almost screamed. “You tella da lie and I am insult!” He thumped his chest angrily, and if looks could have killed I should have fallen stricken to the floor.
There could be no doubt at all as to who this little fire-eater was, but I said coldly:
“Am I to assume that I am adressing Signor Paolo …?”
“II Cavaliere Paolo Tortino!” he roared. “And you ’oo maka da insult! My honour is tramped. I demanda we fight.”
The name Tortino had a vaguely familiar ring, and as I stared at him I felt sure that I knew his face. In his rage he had gone white to the gills, and I think he would have attacked me there and then if Daphnis had not shown remarkable aplomb and courage in so young a girl.
Instead of playing the part of a Victorian miss, to which I had likened her, and giving way to a fit of hysterics, she appeared as cool and collected as if we had been exchanging the most light-hearted pleasantries. Stepping between us, she said in Italian, which she knew that I could understand:
“Mother, it’s quite true. Paolo, I’m sorry, terribly sorry, and if you hadn’t surprised me we should have avoided this most unpleasant scene. I meant to tell you or write to you tonight. I should like to have parted friends, but if that’s impossible it can’t be helped, and in any case I absolutely forbid either of you to fight. You must release me from my engagement. I can never make you happy because I don’t love you and I intend to marry Mr. Julian Day.”
Her ice-cold words seemed to douse Paolo’s anger, and he was now staring at me with more curiosity than hate. The feeling that we had met somewhere before grew in me, and with sudden apprehension I remembered that he was a diplomat. It was quite possible that we might have been
en poste
in the same city during the short time that I spent in His Britannic Majesty’s Diplomatic Service. He spoke abruptly in Italian:
“‘Julian Day’! No—that is not your name.”
My breathing quickened; my heart seemed to shrivel upinside me. My worst forebodings were to be realised. I stood there white and speechless as he went on in a tone of such jubilant conviction that I knew it must sweep away all doubt in the minds of his hearers:
“I remember you now. Your name is Fernhurst and you were a junior attaché at the British Embassy in Brussels. You and another man named Carruthers sold your country’s secrets to a gang of international espionage agents. When your treachery was discovered Carruthers at least had the decency to commit suicide, but you preferred to live on in dishonour and were expelled from the British Diplomatic Service with ignominy. Thief! Traitor! Scum! How dare you pollute with your presence any respectable house! Get out!”
For what seemed an age there was an utter silence. The Italian was glaring at me with confident fiendish triumph in his dark eyes. Madame Diamopholus had
I was a little breathless after that long kiss, but I came to my feet with the best grace that I could muster and said, with a solemnity due to the occasion:
“I know that I appear to have abused your hospitality shamelessly and—and that, before addressing myself to Daphnis, I should have gained the consent of your husband and yourself. But—well, I hope that you will forgive my impetuousness when I tell you that Daphnis and I love each other, and that she has just consented to become my wife.”
Madame Diamopholus stood there, with her mouth half-open,staring at me as though I had gone crazy; but I had hardly finished speaking when a newcomer violently projected himself into the midst of this good old Lyceum drama family scene. He was a thickset, olive-faced young man with black piercing eyes, and had evidently been just behind Madame Diamopholus as she entered the room, but had remained hidden from me until that moment by the open door.
“What you make ’ere wiz my fiancé?” he almost screamed. “You tella da lie and I am insult!” He thumped his chest angrily, and if looks could have killed I should have fallen stricken to the floor.
There could be no doubt at all as to who this little fire-eater was, but I said coldly:
“Am I to assume that I am adressing Signor Paolo …?”
“II Cavaliere Paolo Tortino!” he roared. “And you ’oo maka da insult! My honour is tramped. I demanda we fight.”
The name Tortino had a vaguely familiar ring, and as I stared at him I felt sure that I knew his face. In his rage he had gone white to the gills, and I think he would have attacked me there and then if Daphnis had not shown remarkable aplomb and courage in so young a girl.
Instead of playing the part of a Victorian miss, to which I had likened her, and giving way to a fit of hysterics, she appeared as cool and collected as if we had been exchanging the most light-hearted pleasantries. Stepping between us, she said in Italian, which she knew that I could understand:
“Mother, it’s quite true. Paolo, I’m sorry, terribly sorry, and if you hadn’t surprised me we should have avoided this most unpleasant scene. I meant to tell you or write to you tonight. I should like to have parted friends, but if that’s impossible it can’t be helped, and in any case I absolutely forbid either of you to fight. You must release me from my engagement. I can never make you happy because I don’t love you and I intend to marry Mr. Julian Day.”
Her ice-cold words seemed to douse Paolo’s anger, and he was now staring at me with more curiosity than hate. The feeling that we had met somewhere before grew in me, and with sudden apprehension I remembered that he was a diplomat. It was quite possible that we might have been
en poste
in the same city during the short time that I spent in His Britannic Majesty’s Diplomatic Service. He spoke abruptly in Italian:
“‘Julian Day’! No—that is not your name.”
My breathing quickened; my heart seemed to shrivel upinside me. My worst forebodings were to be realised. I stood there white and speechless as he went on in a tone of such jubilant conviction that I knew it must sweep away all doubt in the minds of his hearers:
“I remember you now. Your name is Fernhurst and you were a junior attaché at the British Embassy in Brussels. You and another man named Carruthers sold your country’s secrets to a gang of international espionage agents. When your treachery was discovered Carruthers at least had the decency to commit suicide, but you preferred to live on in dishonour and were expelled from the British Diplomatic Service with ignominy. Thief! Traitor! Scum! How dare you pollute with your presence any respectable house! Get out!”
For what seemed an age there was an utter silence. The Italian was glaring at me with confident fiendish triumph in his dark eyes. Madame Diamopholus had
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