"Why did you make mischief between me and mine?" retorted Leone; and my lady shrunk as she spoke.
"Listen to me, Leone," she said; "you must help me, you must be my friend. If my son goes to Berlin against his wife's prayers and wishes, she has declared that she will never speak to him or see him again."
"That cannot concern me," said Leone.
"For Heaven's sake listen, and do not speak to me so heartlessly. If he goes to Berlin, Lady Chandos will appeal to the Duke of Lester, who has just obtained for my son the greatest honor that can be conferred on an English gentleman—the Order of the Garter. In plain words, Leone, if my son follows you to Berlin, he will lose his wife, he will lose his good name, he will lose caste, his social position, his chance of courtly honors, the respect of his own class. He will be laughed at as a dupe, as a man who has given up all the honors of life to dance attendance on an actress; in short, if he goes either with you, or after you, to Berlin, he is, in every sense of the word, a ruined man!" and my lady's voice faltered as she said the words.
"Why not tell Lord Chandos all this himself, and see what he says?" asked Leone.
Perfect desperation brings about perfect frankness—my lady knew that it was quite useless to conceal anything.
"I have said all this and more to my son, but he will not even listen to me."
A scornful smile curved those lovely lips.
"He persists in going to Berlin, then?" said Leone, quietly.
"Yes," replied my lady, "he persists in it."