“I say that they’re gentlemen,” retorted the Marchesa. “They saw the position I was in—and they saved me from humiliation.”
That was enough for the men; men are, after all, poor fighters. It was not, however, enough for Lady Norah Mountliffey—a woman—and an Irishwoman to boot!
“Are you really asking us to believe that you hadn’t arranged it with them beforehand?” she inquired scornfully.
“Oh, I don’t ask you to believe anything I say,” returned the Marchesa, dexterously avoiding saying anything on the point suggested.
“The truth is, you’re being very absurd, Helena,” Norah pursued. “If you’ve got a right, go to law with Lord Lynborough and make him respect it. If you haven’t got a right, why go on making yourself ridiculous and all the rest of us very uncomfortable?”
It was obvious that the Marchesa might reply that any guest of hers who felt himself or herself uncomfortable at Nab Grange had, in his or her own hand, the easy remedy. She did not do that. She did a thing more disconcerting still. Though the mutton had only just been put on the table, she pushed back her chair, rose to her feet, and fled from the room very hastily.. Miss Gilletson sprang up. But Norah was beforehand with her.
“No! I said it. I’m the one to go. Who could think she’d take it like that?” Norah’s own blue eyes were less bright than usual as she hurried after her wounded friend. The rest ate on in dreary conscience-stricken silence. At last Stillford spoke.
“Don’t urge her to go to law,” he said. “I’m pretty sure she’d be beaten.”
“Then she ought to give in—and apologise to Lord Lynborough,” said Miss Gilletson decisively. “That would be right—and, I will add, Christian.”
“Humble Pie ain’t very good eating,” commented Captain Irons.