She was, at
that very moment, the handsomest woman I had ever seen--save only the
Princess. The slender figure--the magnificent neck and shoulders--the
roll upon roll of jet-black hair--the almost classic face--and all in
distress and trouble.
She was a picture, surely; and one that was making its impression;
judging from the faces of Lord and Lady Radnor. I changed my manner.
"My dear Mrs. Spencer," I said kindly, "no one may deny your
beauty--and I, least of all. But I do deny that I am your husband.
You are, evidently, ill, and laboring under some queer hallucination."
She shook her head. "You know perfectly well, Armand, I am not ill nor
under a delusion," she said, and looked me straight in the eyes.
"Then, Madame, you are a wonderful--actress," I answered.
Again the tears welled up, and one trickled slowly down her cheek. She
turned quickly and made as though to go. But Courtney stayed her.
"My dear Madame," he said, with that gracious courtesy of his, which I
have never seen equalled by courtier of any Court, "may I ask you a
question?"
She inclined her head in answer and waited.
"You have claimed a Royal Duke of Valeria as your husband, and he has
denied the claim.
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