The Marchesa assumed her grandest manner; it was medieval—it was Titianesque.
"Fortunately, as it seems, Violet, I do not rely on your help to maintain my fights in regard to the path. Pray meet Lord Lynborough as often as you please, but spare me any unnecessary mention of his name."
"I didn't mean any harm. It was all Nellie's fault."
The Marchesa's reply—if such it can be called—was delivered sotto voce, yet was distinctly audible. It was also brief. She said "Nellie!" Nellie was, of course, Miss Dufaure's dog.
Night fell upon an apparently peaceful land. Yet Violet was an absentee from the Marchesa's dressing-room that night, and even between Norah and her hostess the conversation showed a tendency to flag. Norah, for all her courage, dared not mention the name of Lynborough, and Helena most plainly would not. Yet what else was there to talk about? It had come to that point even so early in the war!
Meanwhile, up at Scarsmoor Castle, Lynborough, in exceedingly high spirits, talked to Leonard Stabb.
"Yes, Cromlech," he said, "a pretty girl, a very pretty girl if you like that petite insinuating style. For myself I prefer something a shade more—what shall we call it?"
"Don't care a hang," muttered Stabb.
"A trifle more in the grand manner, perhaps, Cromlech. And she hadn't anything like the complexion. I knew at once that it couldn't be the Marchesa. Do you bathe to-morrow morning?"
"And get my head broken?"