“And that is all you know about—about him?” said Doris, timidly.
“Nearly all. I wish I knew more. I did mention the matter to his grace at the reception the other night, and he looked rather grim and solemn, as if the whole expedition was sentenced——No, no, Doris, I don’t mean that!” she added, hastily, as Doris’ hand relaxed its hold, and she drew herself up, white and shuddering. “No, it ain’t so bad as that; but—but——Well—Ah, my dear, you ought not to have let him go.”
Doris threw herself down again. “It was not my fault; if—if he had said—if he had asked——”
“Give me no ifs!” retorted Lady Despard. “My dear child, no man could have asked you anything while you treated him as you treated Lord Cecil after the marquis’ death. You were not a live, breathing woman, but a marble effigy, a block of ice, and you froze him—you froze him—and sent him to Burmah to thaw himself. Now, I’m not going to talk any more about him. Get on your habit, and let us go for a ride. Thank Heaven, I love no man, and no man loves me! Heigh-ho!”
The footman brought in the evening papers as she spoke, and she took one and glanced at it languidly; then suddenly she sat up, and uttered a low cry.
Doris, who had gone to the door, but who had not left the room, went back to her swiftly.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
Lady Despard closed the paper. “I—thought you had gone,” she said. “Matters?—nothing. The pins and needles in my feet——”
“There is something in that paper,” said Doris, in her low voice, her eyes fixed on it. “Tell me what it is!”
Lady Despard hesitated a moment, then she shrugged her shoulders.