“Lady Betty Modish!” cried Mabel. “That good, beautiful face!”
“Ah!” cried Sir Charles, “I see you did not. Well, Lady Betty was Mrs. Woffington!”
“Whom my husband, I know, had invited here to present her with these verses, which I shall take him for her;” and her poor little lip trembled. “Had the visit been in any other character, as you are so base, so cruel as to insinuate (what have I done to you that you kill me so, you wicked gentleman?), would he have chosen the day of my arrival?”
“Not if he knew you were coming,” was the cool reply.
“And he did know—I wrote to him.”
“Indeed!” said Pomander, fairly puzzled.
Mrs. Vane caught sight of her handwriting on the tray, and darted to it, and seized her letter, and said, triumphantly:
“My last letter, written upon the road—see!”
Sir Charles took it with surprise, but, turning it in his hand, a cool, satirical smile came to his face. He handed it back, and said, coldly:
“Read me the passage, madam, on which you argue.”