"In the name of Heaven, milady," said Lydie irritably, "will you not allow your son to know his own mind? If he has a request to place before M. le Duc my father or before me, let him do so for himself."
"I think—er—perhaps Mlle. d'Aumont is right," here interposed Lord Eglinton gently. "You will—er—I hope, excuse my mother, Mademoiselle; she is so used to my consulting her in everything that perhaps—— You see," he continued in his nervous halting, way, "I—I am rather stupid and I am very lazy; she thinks I should understand finance, because I—but I don't believe I should; I——"
Her earnest eyes, fixed with good-humoured indulgence upon his anxious face, seemed to upset him altogether. His throat was dry, and his tongue felt as if it were several sizes too large for his parched mouth. For the moment it looked as if the small modicum of courage which he possessed would completely give out, but noting that just for the moment his mother was engaged in exchanging hasty greetings with a friend, he seemed to make a violent and sudden effort, and with the audacity which sometimes assails the preternaturally weak, he plunged wildly into his subject.
"I have no desire for positions which I am too stupid to fill," he said, speaking so rapidly that Lydie could hardly follow him; "but, Mademoiselle, I entreat you do not believe that my admiration for you is not serious. I know I am quite unworthy to be even your lacquey, though I wouldn't mind being that, since it would bring me sometimes near you. Please, please, don't look at me—I am such a clumsy fool, and I daresay I am putting things all wrong! My mother says," he added, with a pathetic little sigh, "that I shall spoil everything if I open my mouth, and now I have done it, and you are angry, and I wish to God somebody would come and give me a kick!"
He paused, flushed, panting and excited, having come to the end of his courage, whilst Lydie did not know if she should be angry or sorry. A smile hovered round her lips, yet she would gladly have seen some manlike creature administer chastisement to this foolish weakling. Her keenly analytical mind flew at once to comparisons.
Gaston de Stainville—and now this poor specimen of manhood! She had twice been wooed in this self-same room within half an hour; but how different had been the methods of courting. A look of indulgence for the weak, a flash of pride for the strong, quickly lit up her statuesque face. It was the strong who had won, though womanlike, she felt a kindly pity for him who did not even dare to ask for that which the other had so boldly claimed as his right—her love.
Fortunately, the tête-à-tête, which was rapidly becoming embarrassing—for she really did not know how to reply to this strange and halting profession of love—was at last drawing to a close. At the end of the corridor Charles Edward Stuart, surrounded by a group of friends, had caught sight of her, and with gracious courtesy he advanced to meet her.
"Ah! the gods do indeed favour us," he said gallantly in answer to her respectful salute, and nodding casually to Lady Eglinton, who had bobbed him a grudging curtsey, "We feared that our enemy, Time, treading hard on our heels, would force us to depart ere we had greeted our Muse."
"Your Majesty is leaving us?" she asked. "So soon?"
"Alas! the hour is late. We start to-morrow at daybreak."