“Yes—if you can tell what right is, and avoid wrong to others.”
“Richt’s richt, my lord,” persisted Miss Horn. “I’ll hae nae modifi-qualifications!”
His lordship once more began to walk up and down the room, every now and then taking a stolen glance at Miss Horn, a glance of uneasy anxious questioning. She stood rigid—a very Lot’s wife of immobility, her eyes on the ground, waiting what he would say next.
“I wish I knew whether I could trust her,” he said at length, as if talking aloud to himself.
Miss Horn took no notice.
“Why don’t you speak, woman?” cried the marquis with irritation. How he hated perplexity!
“Ye speired nae queston, my lord; an’ gien ye had, my word has ower little weicht to answer wi’.”
“Can I trust you, woman—I want to know,” said his lordship angrily.
“No far’er, my lord, nor to du what I think’s richt.”
“I want to be certain that you will do nothing with those letters until you hear from me?” said the marquis, heedless of her reply.