"Mr. Lemby will explain himself why he is here, Lady Wyke."
Mr. Lemby was in no hurry to explain himself. He stared wolfishly at the woman who had put an end to his greedy hopes, and did not speak, for quite two minutes. He noted that Lady Wyke was a smallish woman, by no means in her first youth, with a slender figure and a very perfect pink-and-white complexion, which was probably due to art. Her features were cleanly cut, her teeth were white and regular, and she had a pair of large dark eyes, which suggested those of an Andalusian beauty. Nothing could have been more fashionable or accurate than mourning.
Lemby, being a big man, liked little women, and could not conceal from himself that Lady Wyke was particularly attractive. Yet he judged from the hardness of her bright eyes and the unemotional tones of her shrill voice that she was a cat. So he called her in his own mind, and decided that only personal violence could reduce her to reason, and to get the money by personal violence was quite, what the buccaneer would do. He loathed Lady Wyke as a marplot, yet he could not deny her attractions. At one the same time he would have liked to kiss her and to strangle her.
"Well, Mr. Lemby," said Lady Wyke, sharply, for she objected to his insolent scrutiny, "and why are you here?"
"To stand up for Claudia's rights," growled Lemby, in a surly manner.
"Claudia? And who is Claudia?" She stared impertinently through the lorgnette.
"My daughter, who would have married Sir Hector had you not been alive."
Lady Wyke dropped her glasses and burst into a shrill, unpleasant laugh. "Oh, I remember"--she clapped her elegantly-gloved hands--"I saw the announcement of the proposed marriage in a society paper which I picked up in New York, and it was that which brought me over, to tell Hector that he must not commit bigamy. Well, I'm sorry for your daughter, Mr. Lemby, but I am Sir Hector Wyke's wife."
"Pardon me," put in Sandal, "you are his widow."
"Pooh!" said Lady Wyke, contemptuously. "How precise you are."