“Don’t speak! You don’t know her! I was a fool to think she would confide to a mere buffoon,” cried poor Allen, in his misery. “Yet if they were intercepting her letters—”
Wherewith he buried himself in the depths of the shrubbery, while Jock, with a long whistle, came back through the library window to his mother, observing—
“Intercepted! Poor fellow! Hardly necessary, if possible, though Lady Flora might wish to catch her for Clanmacnalty. Has the miserable imp really vouchsafed no notice of any of you?”
“Not the slightest; and it is breaking Allen’s heart.”
“As if a painted little marmoset were worth a man’s heart! But Allen has always been infatuated about her, and there’s a good deal at stake, though, if he could only see it in the right fight, he is well quit of such a bubble of a creature. I wouldn’t be saddled with it for all Belforest.”
“Don’t call her any more names, my dear! I only wish any one would represent to her the predicament she keeps Allen in. He can’t press for an answer, of course; but it is cruel to keep him in this suspense. I wonder Mrs. Evelyn did not make her write.
“I don’t suppose it entered her mind that the little wretch (beg your pardon) had not done it of her own accord, and with those Folliotts there’s no chance. They live in a perpetual whirl, enough to distract an Archbishop. Twenty-four parties a week at a moderate computation.”
“Unlucky child!”
“Wakefield is heartily vexed at her having run into such hands,” said Jock; “but there is no hindering it, no one has any power, and even if he had, George Gould is a mere tool in his wife’s hands.”
“Still, Mr. Wakefield might insist on her answering Allen one way or the other. Poor fellow! I don’t think it would cost her much, for she was too childish ever to be touched by that devotion of his. I always thought it a most dangerous experiment, and all I wish for now is that she would send him a proper dismissal, so that his mind might be settled. It would be bad enough, but better than going on in this way.”