The Indiscretion of the Duchess. Anthony Hope

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      Everything depends on the point of view and is rich in varying aspects. A picture is sublime from one corner of the room, a daub from another; a woman’s full face may be perfect, her profile a disappointment; above all, what you admire in yourself becomes highly distasteful in your neighbor. The moral is, I suppose, Tolerance; or if not that, something else which has escaped me.

      When the duchess said that “it”—by which she meant the whole position of affairs—was “fun,” I laughed; on the other hand, Gustave de Berensac, after one astonished stare, walked to the hall door.

      “Where is my carriage?” we heard him ask.

      “It has started on the way back three, minutes ago, sir.”

      “Fetch it back.”

      “Sir! The driver will gallop down the hill; he could not be overtaken.”

      “How fortunate!” said I.

      “I do not see,” observed Mme. de Saint-Maclou, “that it makes all that difference.”

      She seemed hurt at the serious way in which Gustave took her joke.

      “If I had told the truth, you wouldn’t have come,” she said in justification.

      “Not another word is necessary,” said I, with a bow.

      “Then let us sup,” said the duchess, and she took the armchair at the head of the table.

      We began to eat and drink, serving ourselves. Presently Gustave entered, stood regarding us for a moment, and then flung himself into the third chair and poured out a glass of wine. The duchess took no notice of him.

      “Mlle, de Berensac was called away?” I suggested.

      “She was called away,” answered the duchess.

      “Suddenly?”

      “No,” said the duchess, her eyes again full of complicated expressions. I laughed. Then she broke out in a plaintive cry: “Oh! were you ever dying—dying—dying of weariness?”

      Gustave made no reply; the frown on his face persisted.

      “Isn’t it a pity,” I asked, “to wreck a pleasant party for the sake of a fine distinction? The presence of Mlle. de Berensac would have infinitely increased our pleasure; but how would it have diminished our crime?”

      “I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Aycon,” said the duchess; “then I needn’t have asked him at all.”

      I bowed, but I was content with things as they were. The duchess sat with the air of a child who has been told that she is naughty, but declines to accept the statement. I was puzzled at the stern morality exhibited by my friend Gustave. His next remark threw some light on his feelings.

      “Heavens! if it became known, what would be thought?” he demanded suddenly.

      “If one thinks of what is thought,” said the duchess with a shrug, “one is—”

      “A fool,” said I, “or—a lover!”

      “Ah!” cried the duchess, a smile coming on her lips. “If it is that, I’ll forgive you, my dear Gustave. Whose good opinion do you fear to lose?”

      “I write,” said Gustave, with a rhetorical gesture, “to say that I am going to the house of some friends to meet my sister!”

      “Oh, you write?” we murmured.

      “My sister writes to say she is not there!”

      “Oh, she writes?” we murmured again.

      “And it is thought—”

      “By whom?” asked the duchess.

      “By Lady Cynthia Chillingdon,” said I.

      “That it is a trick—a device—a deceit!” continued poor Gustave.

      “It was decidedly indiscreet of you to come,” said the duchess reprovingly. “How was I to know about Lady Cynthia? If I had known about Lady Cynthia, I would not have asked you; I would have asked Mr. Aycon only. Or perhaps you also, Mr. Aycon—”

      “Madame,” said I, “I am alone in the world.”

      “Where has Claire gone to?” asked Gustave.

      “Paris,” pouted the duchess.

      Gustave rose, flinging his napkin on the table.

      “I shall follow her to-morrow,” he said. “I suppose you’ll go back to England, Gilbert?”

      If Gustave left us, it was my unhesitating resolve to return to England.

      “I suppose I shall,” said I.

      “I suppose you must,” said the duchess ruefully. “Oh, isn’t it exasperating? I had planned it all so delightfully!”

      “If you had told the truth—” began Gustave.

      “I should not have had a preacher to supper,” said the duchess sharply; then she fell to laughing again.

      “Is Mlle. de Berensac irrecoverable?” I suggested.

      “Why, yes. She has gone to take her turn of attendance on your rich old aunt, Gustave.”

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