“The boy’s telling truth,” said Lady Oxford to herself. “He has been exceedingly foolish, but no worse.” Then aloud she asked,—“Saw you ever any priests there?”
“Not to know them for such, Madam.”
“Tampered they with you in any wise as to religion?”
“Never, Madam.”
“And you are yet at heart a true Protestant, and loyal to King James?”
“As much so as I ever was, Madam.”
But as Aubrey spoke, the question arose in his conscience,—What had he ever cared about either? Not half as much as he had cared for Tom Winter,—nay, not so much as he had cared for Tom Winter’s tobacco.
“Mr Louvaine,” said the Countess, suddenly, “have you discovered that you are a very foolish young man?”
Aubrey flushed red, and remained silent.
“It seems to me,” she continued, “that you speak truth, and that you have been no worser than foolish. Yet, so being, you must surely guess that for your own sake, no less than for the Earl’s, you must leave this house, and that quickly.”