She—no, well she did not like it! How dared any woman talk of her husband’s irresistible dark eyes? And Laurence, had he been flirting? Could he flirt? Lady Rachel was an irreclaimable coquette.
“He is coming to dine with us next Sunday week. I wish you could come too, and see my new lion. They say he is awfully clever. Writes such smart articles, and scarifies us poor women. The emancipated female is his particular horror.”
“Indeed! How very pleasant!”
“But men like him, which is always a good sign. They say he is going into Parliament some day.”
“If you are going to make a lion of every one who is said to be going into the House of Commons, you will be able to stock every menagerie in Europe,” retorted Madeline, dusting crumbs off her lap.
“Or that I shall discover a good many asses under lions’ skins, eh? I mentioned you, ma belle, and asked if he had ever heard of you, and he said yes. See what it is to be a social celebrity! And I told him that you were the prettiest girl and greatest heiress in London—and that he really ought to know you.”
“And—and what did he say?” turning a salt-cellar round and round.
“Oh, I’m not quite sure what he said beyond that he was a busy man, and—oh yes, that he detested the genus heiress.”
And then the vivacious matron led the conversation away to another topic, and Madeline led the way to her boudoir. Presently Lady Rachel announced that she had an engagement at four o’clock, and that she could not remain for tea—not even if Madeline went on her knees to her, a feat that Maddie had no desire to perform—and finally she rushed off in a sort of mild whirlwind of good-byes, kisses, and last messages—screamed from the hall and stairs.
Then Madeline sat alone over the fire, and reflected on what she had heard with keen discomfort, whilst she stupidly watched the red coals. Laurence had not answered her last two letters—he had not taken any notice of her call. Of course, he could not come to the house; but at least he might have written. He had no right to treat her as if she was a naughty child. He was entirely relieved of the burthen of her support; he could start well and unweighted in the race. She would pay for Harry too. Her father was impossible at present; he was dreadfully worried about money matters—he was ill. She was doing her best for Laurence and Harry. Surely, he knew that, and that she would rather be with them than here. But as she glanced at her magnificent surroundings, and at her silver tea equipage, just brought in by two powdered servants, with a request to know “if there were any orders for the carriage?” her heart misgave her.