She looked at him calmly for a moment, gave a low moan, and fell like a corpse upon the floor.
He surveyed her with the inquisitive look of a prizefighter, who wishes to see what effect his “punishment” has had upon his adversary—a look in which sympathy is the least ingredient.
“Ah,” he murmured, thoughtfully, “a knock-down blow—not with the fist, but with hard words. Well, this appears to be genuine, and, I suppose, must be attended to.”
He poured out some brandy in a wine-glass, and knelt down by the side of the prostrate woman. He forced some brandy into her mouth, which he made her swallow. It seemed to revive her, for she opened her eyes and sighed.
I write “seemed,” for Laura Stanbridge had only pretended to faint, in order that she might gain time to think.
She had been studying a part while she had been lying prostrate on the ground.
She made an effort to rise, and then groaned. Her companion placed his arms round her waist, and raised her to her feet. Then, with one arm round her, he held her in a half-fainting condition.
It so chanced that at this particular crisis Peace, who had been let in by the servant girl, gave a rap at the half-open door of the little parlour, and not receiving any answer thereto, he entered without further ceremony.
He beheld Laura Stanbridge in the arms of a fashionably-dressed genteel-looking young man, and felt that he had intruded at a mal-apropos time.
“Beg pardon,” cried Peace. “Didn’t know you were engaged.”