She cried, but showed no sign of yielding. Her pride and self-respect were roused and on their defense.
The next day he came to her quietly sad. He seemed languid and listless, and to care for nothing. He was artful enough to tell her, on the information of Poikilus, that Vizard had hired the cathedral choir three times a week to sing to his inamorata; and that he had driven her about Taddington, dressed like a duchess, in a whole suit of sables.
At that word the girl turned pale.
He observed, and continued: “And it seems these sables are known throughout the county. There were several carriages in the town, and my informant heard a lady say they were Mrs. Vizard's sables, worth five hundred guineas—a Russian princess gave them her.”
“It is quite true,” said Zoe. “His mother's sables! Is it possible!”
“They all say he is caught at last, and this is to be the next Mrs. Vizard.”
“They may well say so, if he parades her in his mother's sables,” said Zoe, and could not conceal her jealousy and her indignation. “I never dared so much as ask his permission to wear them,” said she.
“And if you had, he would have told you the relics of a saint were not to be played with.”
“That is just what he would have said, I do believe.” The female heart was stung.
“Ah, well,” said Severne, “I am sure I should not grudge him his happiness, if you would see things as he does, and be as brave as he is.”