"My beautiful lady! I am glad you are come."
Then Griselda lifted her in her arms, and pressing her close, shed the first tears which she had shed since the night before, when she had first heard of Leslie Travers's peril, incurred for her sake.
Norah was soon asleep again, and the kind women threw a covering over both sisters, and left them together with the tact and sympathy which is the outcome of a noble nature, whether it is found in a milliner or a marchioness.
It certainly was not found in Lady Betty Longueville.
When Graves went to her with the tidings that Brian Bellis brought, she flew into one of her "hysterical tantrums," as Graves and David called them.
"Yes, Graves," Lady Betty screamed, "pack up the minx's things; I am well quit of her. Let 'em all go," she said; "but take nothing of mine—I would not give her a groat—spoiling my Bath season like this—treating my friend, Sir Maxwell, with contempt—forcing him to send that insolent puppy a challenge. Disgracing me—disgracing her poor departed uncle—lowering me in the eyes of society—she, the child of a common actor, with whom her wretched mother ran away. Oh! I never wish to set eyes on her again!"
Graves coughed significantly.
"She was left to your ladyship for maintenance," she said.
"How dare you speak like that to me? Leave the room instantly. And, mind, I disown the baggage—the ungrateful hussy—when she might have been my Lady Danby—and—and—of use to me, repaying me for all my kindness these many years—for, let me tell you, Graves, Danby Place is a fine mansion, and she might have been mistress of it—the idiot—the fool! I wash my hands of her—she may go where she lists—but let me never see her face again!"
Graves listened to this tirade with her accustomed composure, and went to Griselda's room to do her lady's bidding.