"And—and you think he is in"—she paused; something seemed to stop her utterance for a moment—"he is in love with this girl?"
He sat silent for a moment.
"If he is to be believed, he is most certainly," he responded, coldly; "very much in love—head over heels! He raved about her for nearly an hour by the clock; I timed him."
She sprung to her feet and moved to and fro, her tiny hand clutching the riding-whip until the nails ran into her soft, pink palm. Then she stopped suddenly and looked at him.
"And this—this girl?" she said. "Who is she?"
"The daughter—no, to be exact, the granddaughter of the earl's housekeeper," he said slowly, as if he enjoyed it.
She panted and drew her breath heavily.
"A servant!" she exclaimed, and she laughed, a cruel unwomanly laugh.
"By no means," he said. "She is, according to Blair, and he is a fair judge, a lady. She is an artist, and is copying the pictures in the Court gallery."
Her face grew white and anxious again.