“I never can believe that Rose would do such a thing,” said Caroline. “We can hardly have to endure more than has befallen us already.”
Her speech was pensive, as of one who had matter of her own to ponder over. A swift illumination burst in the Countess’s mind.
“No? Have you, dear, darling Carry? not that I intend that you should! but to-day the Duke would be such ineffable support to us. May I deem you have not been too cruel to-day? You dear silly English creature, ‘Duck,’ I used to call you when I was your little Louy. All is not yet lost, but I will save you from the ignominy if I can. I will!”
Caroline denied nothing—confirmed nothing, just as the Countess had stated nothing. Yet they understood one another perfectly. Women have a subtler language than ours: the veil pertains to them morally as bodily, and they see clearer through it.
The Countess had no time to lose. Wrath was in her heart. She did not lend all her thoughts to self-defence.
Without phrasing a word, or absolutely shaping a thought in her head, she slanted across the sun to Mr. Raikes, who had taken refreshment, and in obedience to his instinct, notwithstanding his enormous pretensions, had commenced a few preliminary antics.
“Dear Mr. Raikes!” she said, drawing him aside, “not before dinner!”
“I really can’t contain the exuberant flow!” returned that gentleman. “My animal spirits always get the better of me,” he added confidentially.
“Suppose you devote your animal spirits to my service for half an hour.”
“Yours, Countess, from the ‘os frontis’ to the chine!” was the exuberant rejoinder.