She wiped her eyes.
“Have I not always told you,” she said, “that intrigue in this country was a sheer impossibility? You may lay your plans ever so carefully, but you cannot foresee such a contretemps as this.”
“Idiot!” the Prince cried. “Oh, the dolt! Why, even his wife was amazed.”
“He may be all those pleasant things,” Lady Carey, said, “but he is a gentleman.”
He stopped short. The footman was standing by the side of Lady Carey’s victoria with a rug on his arm.
“Lucille,” he said thoughtfully, “is locked in the morning-room. She is prostrate with fear. If the Duke sees her everything is over. Upon my word, I have a good mind to throw this all up and cross to Paris to-night. Let England breed her own revolutions. What do you say, Muriel? Will you come with me?”
She laughed scornfully.
“I’d as soon go with my coachman,” she said.
His eyebrows narrowed. A dull, purple flush crept to his forehead.
“Your wit,” he said, “is a little coarse. Listen! You wish our first plan to go through?”