"You did not put it so adroitly in discussing the practice with Aline," she said quickly. "Granted that her own marriage was a mistake,--a dreadful mistake,--it does not follow that all international matches are failures. I would just as soon be unhappily married to a duke as to a dry-goods merchant, Mr. Smart." "But not at the same price, Mrs. Titus," I remarked. She smiled. "A husband is dear at any price." "I shouldn't put it just that way," I protested. "A good American husband is a necessity, not a luxury." "Well, to go back to what I started to say, Aline is very bitter about matrimony as viewed from my point of view. I am sorry to say I attribute her attitude to your excellent counselling." "You flatter me. I was under the impression she took her lessons of Tarnowsy." "Granted. But Tarnowsy was unfit. Why tar all of them with the same stick? There are good noblemen, you'll admit." "But they don't need rehabilitation." "Aline, I fear, will never risk another experiment. It's rather calamitous, isn't it? When one stops to consider her youth, beauty and all the happiness there may be--" "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Titus, but I think your fears are groundless." "What do you mean?" "The Countess will marry again. I am not betraying a secret, because she has intimated as much to my secretary as well as to me. I take it that as soon as this unhappy affair is settled, she will be free to reveal the true state of her feelings toward--" I stopped, somewhat dismayed by my garrulous turn. "Toward whom?" she fairly snapped. "I don't know," I replied truthfully--and, I fear, lugubriously. "Good heaven!" she cried, starting up from the bench on which we were sitting in the loggia. There was a queer expression in her eyes. "Hasn't--hasn't she ever hinted at--hasn't she mentioned any one at all?" "Not to me." Mrs. Titus was agitated, I could see that very plainly. A thoughtful frown appeared on her smooth brow, and a gleam of anxiety sprang into her eyes. "I am sure that she has had no opportunity to--" She did not complete the sentence, in which there was a primary note of perplexity and wonder. It grilled me to discover that she did not even so much as take me into consideration. "You mean since the--er--divorce?" I inquired. "She has been in seclusion all of the time. She has seen no man,--that is to say, no man for whom she could possibly entertain a--But, of course, you are mistaken in your impression, Mr. Smart. There is absolutely nothing in what you say." "A former sweetheart, antedating her marriage," I suggested hopelessly. "She has no sweetheart. Of that I am positive," said she with conviction. "She must have had an army of admirers. They were legion after her marriage, I may be pardoned for reminding you." She started. "Has she never mentioned Lord Amberdale to you?" she asked. "Amberdale?" I repeated, with a queer sinking of the heart. "No, Mrs. Titus. An Englishman?"