Ours Is A Strange Courtship
Louise looked up eagerly as he entered.
"There is news!" she exclaimed. "I can see it in your face."
"Yes," Bellamy answered, "there is news! That is why I have come. Where can we talk?"
She rose to her feet. Before them the open French windows led on to a smooth green
lawn. She took his arm.
"Come outside with me," she said. "I am shut up here because I will not see the doctors
whom they send, or any one from the Opera House. An envoy from the Palace has been
and I have sent him away."
"You mean to keep your word, then?"
"Have I ever broken it? Never again will I sing in this City. It is so."
Bellamy looked around. The garden of the villa was enclosed by high gray stone walls.
They were secure here, at least, from eavesdroppers. She rested her fingers lightly upon
his arm, holding up the skirts of her loose gown with her other hand.
"I have spoken to you," he said, "of Dorward, the American journalist."
"Of course," she assented. "You told me that the Chancellor had promised him an
interview for to-day."
"Well, he went to the Palace and the Chancellor saw him.".
She looked at him with upraised eyebrows.
"The newspapers are full of lies as usual, then, I suppose. The latest telegrams say that
the Chancellor is dangerously ill."
"It is quite true," Bellamy declared. "What I am going to tell you is surprising, but I had it
from Dorward himself. When he reached the Palace, the Chancellor was practically
insane. His doctors were trying to persuade him to go to his room and lie down, but he
heard Dorward's voice and insisted upon seeing him. The man was mad - on the verge of
a collapse - and he handed over to Dorward his notes, and a verbatim report of all that
passed at the Palace this morning."
She looked at him incredulously.
"My dear David!" she exclaimed.