"Yes," said she, in a cold, low, meaningless voice—in a voice that told nothing by its tones—"Lady Clara had better hear it from me." But in the title which she gave her daughter, Herbert instantly read his doom. He, however, remained silent. It was for the countess now to speak.
"But it is possible it may not be true," she said, speaking almost in a whisper, looking, not into his face, but by him, at the fire.
"It is possible; but so barely possible, that I did not think it right to keep the matter from you any longer."
"It would have been very wrong—very wicked, I may say," said the countess.
"It is only two days since I knew anything of it myself," said he, vindicating himself.
"You were of course bound to let me know immediately," she said, harshly.
"And I have let you know immediately, Lady Desmond." And then they were both again silent for a while.
"And Mr. Prendergast thinks there is no doubt?" she asked.
"None," said Herbert, very decidedly.
"And he has told your cousin Owen?"