‘My Lord,’ sobbed Flora, ‘has quarrelled with Mr. Coningsby.’
An expression of eager interest came over the countenance of Lucretia.
‘Why have they quarrelled?’
‘I do not know they have quarrelled; it is not, perhaps, a right term; but my Lord is very angry with Mr. Coningsby.’
‘Not very angry, I should think, Flora; and about what?’
‘Oh! very angry, madam,’ said Flora, shaking her head mournfully. ‘My Lord told M. Villebecque that perhaps Mr. Coningsby would never enter the house again.’
‘Was it to-day?’ asked Lucretia.
‘This morning. Mr. Coningsby has only left this hour or two. He will not do what my Lord wishes, about some seat in the Chamber. I do not know exactly what it is; but my Lord is in one of his moods of terror: my father is frightened even to go into his room when he is so.’
‘Has Mr. Rigby been here to-day?’ asked Lucretia.
‘Mr. Rigby is not in town. My father went for Mr. Rigby this morning before Mr. Coningsby came, and he found that Mr. Rigby was not in town. That is why I know it.’