"By-the-bye, Miss Beverley, have you heard anything of poor Egerton? I fear his father's death will be a sad blow to him. I tremble for the consequences."
And here he touched his forehead, with a significant look at Sir Harry.
Constance was a true woman. She was always ready too vigorously to defend an absent friend, but she was no match for her antagonist; she could not keep cool.
"What do you mean?" said she, angrily. "Why should you tremble, as you call it, for Vere?"
Ropsley put on his most provoking air, as he answered, with a sort of playful mock deference--
"I beg your pardon, Miss Beverley, I am continually affronting you, this unlucky morning. First, I bore you about De Rohan, thinking you do care for your old friends; then I make you angry with me about Egerton, believing you don't. After all, I said no harm about him; nothing more than we all know perfectly well. He always was eccentric as a boy--he is more so than ever, I think, now; and I only meant that I feared any sudden shock or violent affliction might upset his nervous system, and, in short--may I ask you for a little more cream?--end in total derangement. The fact is," he added, sotto voce, to Sir Harry, "he is as mad as Bedlam now."
He saw the girl's lip quiver, and her hand shake as she gave him his cup; but he kept his cold grey eye fastened on her. He seemed to read her most secret thoughts, and she feared him now--actually feared him. Well, it was always something gained. He proceeded good-humouredly--
"Do we shoot on the island to-day, Sir Harry?" he asked of his host. "Perhaps Miss Beverley will come over to our luncheon in her boat. How pretty you have made that island, Sir Harry; and what a place for ducks about sundown!"
The island was a pet toy of Sir Harry's; he was pleased, as usual, with his friend's good taste.
"Yes, come over to luncheon, Constance," said he. "You can manage the boat quite well that short way."