"Yes," he said. "Your mother has not asked me over to Nice to-night because she believes you and I have been too much together of late."
"No," declared Dorise. "I'm sure it's not that, Hugh--I'm quite sure! It's simply an oversight. I'll see about it when we get back. We leave the hotel at half-past nine. It is the great White Ball of the Nice season."
"Please don't mention it to her on any account, Dorise," Hugh urged. "If you did it would at once show her that you preferred my company to that of the Count. Go with him. I shan't be jealous! Besides, in view of my financial circumstances, what right have I to be jealous? You can't marry a fellow like myself, Dorise. It wouldn't be fair to you."
The girl halted. In her eyes shone the light of unshed tears.
"Hugh! What do you mean? What are you saying?" she asked in a low, faltering voice. "Have I not told you that whatever happens I shall never love another man but yourself?"
He drew a long breath, and without replying placed his strong arms around her and, drawing her to him, kissed her passionately upon the lips.
"Thank you, my darling," he murmured. "Thank you for those words. They put into me a fresh hope, a fresh determination, and a fearlessness--oh! you--you don't know!" he added in a low, earnest voice.
"All I know, Hugh, is that you love me," was the simple response as she reciprocated his fierce caress.
"Love you, darling!" he cried. "Yes. You are mine--mine!"
"True, Hugh. I love no other man. I hate that tailor's dummy, George Sherrard, and as for the Count--well, he's an idiotic Frenchman--the 'hardy annual of Monte Carlo' I heard him called the other day. No, Hugh, I assure you that you have no cause for jealousy."
And she smiled sweetly into his eyes.
They were standing together beneath a twisted old olive tree through the dark foliage of which the sun shone in patches, while by their feet the mountain torrent from the high, snow-clad Alps rippled and splashed over the great grey boulders towards the sea.
"I know it, darling! I know it," Hugh said in a stifled voice. He was thinking of the tragedy of that night, but dare not disclose to her his connexion with it, because he knew the police suspected him of making that murderous attack upon the famous "Mademoiselle."
"Forgive me, Hugh," exclaimed the girl, still clasped in her lover's arms. "But somehow you don't seem your old self to-day. What is the matter? Can't you tell me?"
He drew a long breath.