“Ah!” Rosamund drooped her head.
She looked up. “Here is Louise. My lord has had a long conversation with Mr. Lydiard.”
“I trust he will come here before you leave us,” added the earl.
Rosamund took her hand. “My lord has been more acute than I, or else your friend is less guarded than you.”
“What have you seen?” said the blushing lady.
“Stay. I have an idea you are one of the women I promised to Cecil Baskelett,” said the earl. “Now may I tell him there’s no chance?”
“Oh! do.”
They spent so very pleasant an evening that the earl settled down into a comfortable expectation of the renewal of his old habits in the September and October season. Nevil’s frightful cry played on his ear-drum at whiles, but not too affectingly. He conducted Rosamund to her room, kissed her, hoped she would sleep well, and retired to his good hard bachelor’s bed, where he confidently supposed he would sleep. The sleep of a dyspeptic, with a wilder than the monstrous Bevisham dream, befell him, causing him to rise at three in the morning and proceed to his lady’s chamber, to assure himself that at least she slept well. She was awake.
“I thought you might come,” she said.
He reproached her gently for indulging foolish nervous fears.