“And you—man,” continued Lady Lisle, “are that—person’s father.” She uttered the word “person” in a tone, innocent as the appellation was, so acid that it made, the trainer bristly and Syd more of a man.
“Yes, I’m her father, my lady, but it’s no use to cut up rough.”
“Silence, man!” cried Lady Lisle, indignantly; “take the creature away.”
“Shan’t!” roared the trainer, starting. “She’s my gal, and she shall have her rights.”
“Syd!” cried poor Molly, in a passionate burst of tears, and she turned and flung her arms round the boy’s neck.
“Syd, my child!” wailed Lady Lisle, passionately. “You too? Has it come to this?”
“Yes,” sobbed and wailed the poor, pretty, childish-looking thing, turning now upon Lady Lisle and throwing up her dishevelled head, “of course it has; and he ain’t yours now—he’s mine, ain’t you, Syd dear, and you won’t let your poor little wife be abused like that, will you?”
“No,” cried the boy, stoutly, as Lady Lisle clapped her hands to her temples, and stared as if she could not believe her eyes and ears.
“Yes, auntie dear, it’s all right; this is my darling little wife, and we love one another like—Here, what’s the matter with you?”
This was to the doctor, who suddenly threw up his hands, spun round with his face to Lady Tilborough, and began stamping about, laughing hysterically, seeming moment by moment as if he would choke.