And she stretched out her hand in a gesture intended to express the full measure of her wrath.
Lord Stowmaries roused himself from his unpleasant torpor.
"To excuse you, fair one?" he murmured in the tone of a man who has just wakened from slumber, and is still unaware of what has been going on around him whilst he slept.
"Ay, my good lord," she replied with a shrill note of sarcasm very apparent in the voice which so many men had compared to that of a nightingale. "I fain must tear myself away from the delights of your delectable company—though I confess 'twere passing easy to find more entertaining talk than yours has been this last half-hour."
"Would you be cruel to me now, Mistress?" he said with a deep and mournful sigh, "now, when—"
"Now, when what?" she retorted still pettishly, though a little mollified by his obvious distress.
She turned back towards him, and presently placed a hand on his shoulder.
"My lord," she said resolutely, "either you tell me now and at once what ails you this afternoon, or I pray you leave me, for in your present mood, by my faith, your room were more enjoyable than your company."
He took that pretty hand which still lingered on his shoulder, and pressing it for a few lingering seconds between both his, he finally conveyed its perfumed whiteness to his lips.
"Don't send me away," he pleaded pathetically; "I am the most miserable of mortals, and if you closed your doors against me now, you would be sending your most faithful adorer straight to perdition."