“Why does not he——?” she stopped.
“Why doesn’t he come forward and beg for forgiveness and ask you to become his own little Doris again and Mrs. Marquis?” cried Lady Despard, dryly. “Because he is as proud as you are, my dear. What! Ask a girl as rich as a female Crœsus to be his wife when he has only a few paltry thousands a year; ask the girl who would scarcely speak a word to him when he came to wish her good-by, perhaps for the last time. Why, isn’t he a Stoyle, too, and haven’t all of you got, and haven’t all of you always had, the pride and stiff-neckedness of the dev—ahem! the evil one? My dear, I am the laziest soul in London, and I’ve registered a vow that I’ll never get excited and warm over anything; but really when I think of you spending your days and nights in hungering for him——”
“Oh!” murmured Doris, and she glided to her and hid her face on her shoulder.
“So you do! Do you think I can’t hear you sighing long after you ought to be asleep, you obstinate and abandoned girl,” retorted Lady Despard. “Doris, my dear, if I were only old enough, or you were young enough, it would be my pleasing duty to shut you up in your room on bread and water till you came to your senses and consented to hide your silly little head against his shirt front, spoiling his clothes instead of mine. My dear, would you mind covering my dress with your pocket-handkerchief if you are crying.”
“I’m not crying,” said Doris, indignantly, and giving her a little push, but still hiding her face. “When—when did you hear from him last?” she asked, in a whisper.
“Just two months ago,” replied Lady Despard, her voice growing suddenly serious. “You were too proud to ask for the news, or I would have told you. He was well then, but was going up the country after those miserable Decoys—Dacoits, or whatever they’re called, and from what I’ve read in the papers I’m afraid——”
Doris’ hand tightened on her shoulder spasmodically.
“Don’t pinch me, my dear. I didn’t send him there. Catch me! I only wish he’d ask me to be his wife. I’d have married either of the two men you sent to Jericho; but that’s the way with the gods, they always shower their gifts on the unworthy and ungrateful, and deserving people can go starving.”
“I wish he had,” murmured Doris; “you would both have been happy then.”
“No, you don’t wish anything of the kind,” retorted Lady Despard, indolently. “You would be ready to tear my eyes out if there had ever been the slightest chance of such a thing. Oh, you can’t delude me into thinking you the gentle dove most people imagine you, you little scorpion.”