Lord Mountfalcon knew he had a great deal to say, but how to say it, and what it exactly was, he did not know.’
“You conceal it admirably,” he began, “but you must be very lonely here—I fear, unhappy.”
“I should have been lonely, but for your kindness, my lord,” said Lucy. “I am not unhappy.” Her face was in shade and could not belie her.
“Is there any help that one who would really be your friend might give you, Mrs. Feverel?”
“None indeed that I know of,” Lucy replied. “Who can help us to pay for our sins?”
“At least you may permit me to endeavour to pay my debts, since you have helped me to wash out some of any sins.”
“Ah, my lord!” said Lucy, not displeased. It is sweet for a woman to believe she has drawn the serpent’s teeth.
“I tell you the truth,” Lord Mountfalcon went on. “What object could I have in deceiving you? I know you quite above flattery—so different from other women!”
“Oh, pray, do not say that,” interposed Lucy.
“According to my experience, then.”