I hardly know what prompts this speech. Perhaps a faint remembrance of how at certain times, when conversing with Mark Gore, I have looked across the rooms or gardens, or wherever we might chance to be, and seen a glance that was almost hatred fall on me from her ladyship's eyes. Now, however, my spiteful little speech has no greater effect than to cause Marmaduke's fingers to close with vicious force around the painted satin toy he holds.
Why does he not speak? Why will he not even suffer his gaze to meet mine? I feel angry and reckless. He is sitting a little forward, with his head slightly bent and a determined expression upon his face. Is he anxious for my departure? Have I disturbed his interesting tete-a-tete!
I will show him how little power he has over me for either joy or sorrow.
I turn away, and with a backward careless nod at Lady Blanche, say lightly,—-
"Take care you don't suffer for sitting there. There are so many draughts in a conservatory, We even consider the open air safer."
And with that, though it was by no means my original intention, I go out through the glass door into the silent starlight night, and even manage to laugh gayly before we are beyond earshot.
As we touch the gravel, however, I face Sir Mark, and, foolishly unmindful of how my words may impress him, cry fiercely, "Did you bring me there on purpose?"
"Where?" he asks, with such wide astonishment as instantly brings me to my senses. I feel overpowered with shame, and try to turn it off, clumsily enough.
"Into Lady Blanche's presence," I say, fretfully. "You know that woman always puts me out."
"Was it not yourself who insisted on going there?" Sir Mark reminds me, gravely.