"But, instead of keeping us standing here, come up to our sitting-room
and have a little talk--and whisky and soda."
"Yes, do come, Dundas," her husband added.
"Thank you both," I stammered, trying not to look embarrassed. "But--I
know you're all tired, and--."
"And perhaps you have some nice engagement," piped Lisa.
"It's too late for respectable British young men to have engagements in
naughty Paris," said Lady Mountstuart, laughing again (she looks very
handsome when she laughs, and knows it). "Isn't that true, Mr. Dundas?"
"It depends upon the engagement," I managed to reply calmly. But then,
as Di suddenly turned and looked straight at me with marked coldness,
the blood sprang up to my face. I began to stammer again like a young
ass of a schoolboy. "I'm afraid that I--er--the fact is, I _am_ engaged.
A matter of business. I wish I could get out of it, but I can't,
and--er--I shall have to run off, or I will be late.
Good-bye,--good-bye." Then I mumbled something about hoping to see them
again before they left Paris, and escaped, knowing that I had made a
horrid mess of my excuses. Di was laughing at something West said, as I
turned away, and though perhaps his remark and her laugh had nothing to
do with me, my ears burned, and there was a cold lump of iron, or
something that felt like it, where my heart ought to have been.
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