“In this instance the case may give him up,” said the Minister, peevishly; “but I must beg, Clara, that you will answer my question.”
“Oh! the carriage! It must have been Lord Arthur Sibthorpe’s.”
“I saw the three chevrons upon the panel,” muttered the invalid.
His lady had pulled herself a little straighter and opened her large blue eyes.
“Then why ask?” she said. “One might almost think, Charles, that you were laying a trap! Did you expect that I should deceive you? You have not had your lithia powder.”
“For Heaven’s sake, leave it alone! I asked because I was surprised that Lord Arthur should call here. I should have fancied, Clara, that I had made myself sufficiently clear on that point. Who received him?”
“I did. That is, I and Ida.”
“I will not have him brought into contact with Ida. I do not approve of it. The matter has gone too far already.”
Lady Clara seated herself on a velvet-topped footstool, and bent her stately figure over the Minister’s hand, which she patted softly between her own.
“Now you have said it, Charles,” said she. “It has gone too far—I give you my word, dear, that I never suspected it until it was past all mending. I may be to blame—no doubt I am; but it was all so sudden. The tail end of the season and a week at Lord Donnythorne’s. That was all. But oh! Charlie, she loves him so, and she is our only one! How can we make her miserable?”