“Why did you not inform your uncle of his mistake? What made you accept me as you did?”
“Uncle Swithin doesn’t like it when I dispute with him,” she explained. “He said I was to say just what he told me, and I should have a purple silk gown.”
“Oh!” said the Duke, a good deal taken aback. “I am excessively obliged to you, and if a purple silk gown is what you desire I would I could give you one! How old are you?”
“I think I shall soon be seventeen,” she answered.
“You think! But you know when you have a birthday, surely?”
“No,” said Belinda regretfully. “Uncle Swithin’s head is cut open.”
This remark seemed to be more in the nature of a statement than a reproach, but the Duke, glancing down at Mr. Liversedge’s form, saw that his pallid countenance was ghastly in hue, and felt a certain measure of compunction. He did not think that Mr. Liversedge was in much danger of bleeding to death, but he did not desire his death, and thought, moreover, that his own position might be awkward if this should happen. He bent over him again, and bound his own handkerchief round his head, saying: “When I am gone, you may summon help, but pray do not do so until then!”
“No,” said Belinda obediently. “I wish you was not going! Where did you come from?”
Her unconcern with her uncle’s plight made the Duke laugh in spite of himself. “I did not drop from a balloon, I assure you! I came from Baldock, and I think it is time that I returned there. Your uncle will be recovering in a moment, and since I do not care for the look of his friends belowstairs, I think I had best depart before he can summon them to his aid.”
“Mr. Mimms is very disagreeable,” she observed. She raised her lovely eyes to his face, and said simply: “I wish you would take me with you, sir!”