She was off without awaiting the reply, on to another subject. Conversationally she fluttered like a butterfly, here, there, and everywhere. She had much to say of the late executions: there were upflung hands of horror, and some pungent exclamations in the French tongue. She spoke of his Grace of Cumberland, not flatteringly; she had a quick ripple of laughter for his ugly nickname, and the instant after a brimming pair of eyes when she thought how he had earned it. Blood! England must needs reek of it! She gave a shudder. But there must be no more executions: that was decided: no, nor risings either. All that was folly; folly the most outrageous. Peste, how came the Merriots in so forlorn a galère?..
They sat alone at the dinner-table; the lackeys had withdrawn, and even the little black page had been sent away. Prudence answered my lady, since Robin sat silent. “Oh, believe me, ma’am, we ask ourselves! The old gentleman had a maggot in his brain belike. A beau geste, I am persuaded; nothing else.”
“But stupid, my child, stupid! There was never a hope. Moreover, we do very well with little fierce George. Bah, why plunge all in disorder for a pretty princeling?”
“He had the right.” Robin spoke sombrely.
“Quant à ça, I know nothing of the matter, my little one. You English, you chose for yourselves a foreigner. Bien! But you must not turn against him now. No, no, that is not reasonable.”
“By your leave, ma’am, not all chose him.”
She flashed a look at him. “Eh, so he had you under his spell, the bonnie prince? But you — no, my cabbage, you are no Jacobite at heart. A spell, no more.”
“Oh, I am nothing at all, ma’am, rest you content. I meddle no more in the affairs of princes.”
“That is wise,” she approved. “This time you escape. Another time — who knows?”
He laughed irresponsibly. “As to that, my lady, I don’t count myself safe as yet.”