"Very well, sir. I'll come to you."
"Do you know the news, Nand?" cried Mercy, as soon as the door closed behind him, and the look of her eye was full of mischief.
"No. I've only read a couple of newspapers this morning," I answered, flippantly.
"I don't mean news of the stupid newspaper sort; I mean real, private, important news. This will be in the fashionable gossip next week: but it isn't public yet."
"No—and I'm afraid I'm not very interested in it, either. Next week I shall be in Madrid."
"Ah, but this is about Madrid, too," she cried, looking mysterious.
"What do you mean, Mercy?" asked Lascelles, who was of a very curious turn, and not quick. "What news is it?"
"It's about Mrs. Curwen, Lascelles. She is going to stay in Madrid;" and Mercy pointed the little shaft with a barbed glance that made him colour with vexation.
"Upon my word, Mercy, you ought to know better. You are abominably rude, and your manners are unpardonable," he cried, angrily. "I declare I won't allow it."
"Allow it? Why, she didn't tell me she had to ask your permission. But, of course, I'll tell her she mustn't go," returned Mercy, with such a fine assumption of innocent misunderstanding that I could not restrain my laughter.