“Poor old Jack,” said Dalrymple, after a pause, “seems to be cut up about something lately. Do you remember how queer he was that night he came back from the country, Arkroyd?”
Lady Bell looked up suddenly.
“Let us go for a ramble. You may smoke, gentlemen,” she added. “Now don’t shake your heads as if you never did such a thing. I can see your cigar-case peeping out of your pocket, Lord Dalrymple.”
And linking her arm in Una’s, she sauntered away.
They strolled in silence for some minutes, until Una, happening to look up, saw that Lady Bell’s face was quite pale, and that something suspiciously like tears were veiling the brightness of the dark eyes.
“Lady Bell!” she murmured.
“Hush!” said Lady Bell, gently. “Don’t notice me, child! Oh, how sick I am of it all! What a long day it seems! How can they sit there laughing and chattering like a set of monkeys?”
“What is the matter?” said Una, in her low, musical voice.
“Nothing,” said Lady Bell, softly; then she paused and tried to laugh. “Una, my sweet, innocent, I’ve got a complaint which you know nothing of; it is called the heartache. There is no cure for it, I am afraid; at least, not for mine. Tut! there, there! your great, grave eyes torture me; they seem to go to the bottom of my soul. Not a word more. Here they come!”
And the next instant she turned round, all life and gayety.