“Can’t you tell me, just to quiet his mind? I will never think of it again, but this excitement must be very bad for him.” He glanced at Cyril, who was straining his ears to catch their low-toned conversation. “No; I can’t. He has no right to ask it of me, nor have you. It is merely a thing between him and me, and it would make no difference if I told it to you, except that you would think worse of him. I say to him that he must tell you about it himself if he wants you to know it.” “How can he, when he hasn’t strength to utter a word?” asked Caerleon, indignant at what seemed her unkindness. “Come, I must insist on your telling me. Do you know that this anxiety is the worst possible thing for him? You cannot refuse to ease his mind.” “You care a great deal more for his feelings than you do for mine!” cried Nadia, angrily. “If you really believe that, I must bear it, I suppose. Kindly tell me this mystery.” “It is merely that he came to see me at Bellaviste, some days before the great ball, and got me to promise that I would not marry you if you asked me. That’s all. And it made no difference whatever. I would never have married you under any circumstances.” And launching this Parthian arrow at him, she retreated defiantly, leaving him stupefied. He remembered how Cyril had offered to help him in his suit, had arranged for him a meeting with Nadia, had contrived to keep M. Drakovics from suspecting what was going on,--and all the time he had been playing this double game. Now he was lying helpless, gazing with anxious eyes at his brother, and awaiting his reception of the news. With those eyes upon him, Caerleon could not hesitate. “It’s all right, old man,” he said, with something like a groan; “she says herself that it made no difference, you see.”