“By finding out—there’s a darling!”
“Finding what out?”
“What Trevenna told him.”
“Trevenna—?” Lydia echoed in bewilderment.
Mrs. Linton clapped her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, Lord—there, it’s out! What a fool I am! But I supposed of course you knew; I supposed everybody knew.” She dried her eyes and bridled. “Didn’t you know that he’s Lord Trevenna? I’m Mrs. Cope.”
Lydia recognized the names. They had figured in a flamboyant elopement which had thrilled fashionable London some six months earlier.
“Now you see how it is—you understand, don’t you?” Mrs. Cope continued on a note of appeal. “I knew you would—that’s the reason I came to you. I suppose he felt the same thing about your husband; he’s not spoken to another soul in the place.” Her face grew anxious again. “He’s awfully sensitive, generally—he feels our position, he says—as if it wasn’t my place to feel that! But when he does get talking there’s no knowing what he’ll say. I know he’s been brooding over something lately, and I must find out what it is—it’s to his interest that I should. I always tell him that I think only of his interest; if he’d only trust me! But he’s been so odd lately—I can’t think what he’s plotting. You will help me, dear?”
Lydia, who had remained standing, looked away uncomfortably.
“If you mean by finding out what Lord Trevenna has told my husband, I’m afraid it’s impossible.”