“Why, I declare Lady Joseline looks shocked,” said Colonel Wildairs, in a loud, full voice, which would have been a fortune to an orator. “She is not used to the manners and ways of such society, eh?”
“No, thank goodness, I am not,” she answered, with decision.
“Are you Irish so particular?”
“Among the lower orders—yes. I do not know the other lot; they may be as bad as yourselves, but the common people have conduct, and they have to behave themselves. I knew a girl—a married woman—and her husband thought she was speaking too free to a young boy, and he punished her proper.”
“How?” inquired Miss Tripp, leaning forward as she spoke. “Do tell us how he punished her ‘proper’ for improper behaviour.”
“Well, he tied her up by her two hands in the cowhouse, and he bet her with a car-whip till he could stand over her no longer, and she was half-killed. I heard the screeches of her myself, and it served her right.”
“You think so?” said Lady Boxhill sarcastically.
“Certainly, and to be sure I do. What does a married woman want with a sweetheart? Will ye tell me?” Here she inadvertently fixed her eyes upon Lady Towton, and the question seemed to be shot at her from the girl’s impetuous lips.
The stupid creature did not know how her arrow hit the goal—the only one at table who was ignorant of its effect. Lady Towton became white, then crimson, and Joseline’s bitter enemy to the end of her life.