"I understand," retorted the other. "He is most dangerous when quiet; you are always afraid he is preparing for some piece of madness beyond the ordinary. Well, my dear, if you will give the world such a creature you must put up with the consequences—be prepared to pay the penalty. I should be quite content to do so."
"Ah, you don't know," said the countess, with a smile that had something pathetic in it.
"Yes, I do," retorted the old lady, curtly. "And I envy you still. I love the boy, Ethel. There is not a woman of us in the room, from the youngest to the oldest, who does not love him. You cannot expect one whom the gods have so favored to behave like an ordinary mortal."
"Why not? It is just what Algernon has said to me."
"I thought as much. I was watching you two. Of all things, beware of this: don't let Algernon interfere with him. It is a strange thing to say, but his father is the worst man in all the world to attempt to put the bridle on Leycester. It is we women who alone have the power to guide him."
"That is where my fear lies," said the countess. "It is the thought of what may happen in that quarter which fills me with daily dread."
"There is only one safeguard—marry him," remarked the old countess, but with a comical smile.
The countess sighed.
"Again, that is what Algernon says. You both say it as calmly as if you told me to give him a cup of tea."
The old countess was silent for a moment, then she said—