“I can’t find words to thank you,” muttered Ned at last.
“Faith,” cried the other cheerily, “ye’ve scattered your vocabulary, I shouldn’t wonder. Come, then, to the rogues at the gate, and I’ll help ye out with a loan.”
Ned drew back from the proffered grasp.
“No,” he said—“no!”
Then he passed his hand before his eyes.
“Your lordship must excuse me. This suspense—it hath driven me half mad. I am just a caged rat, flying the instant the spring is raised. Mistress Pamela, and my prompt, affectionate Vergniaud! Their disinterested consideration for me—and yours, my lord, yours—they touch me to the quick. I have such friends—Madame Simon-Candeille, possibly, among the number. But I am at the last stage of anxiety and agitation. I have no thought for the moment but to escape, and alone. I beg your lordship to forgive my apparent discourtesy, and to let me pass. God knows, it may be too late even now.”
The other, looking very much surprised and offended, bowed and drew away.
“As your lordship pleases,” said he.
And at that, Ned, without another word, his face as stiff as a mask, staggered past him, hurried out into the corridor, sped down it, and made unaccosted for the street.