Hero sprang up, her hands tightly locked together within her ermine muff, quite as angry a flush as Isabella’s in her cheeks. “You are right! I will go to George! He does not make shameless love to me; no, for he has no love for me! but he is fond of me, a little, and he did say he would not wish to make me unhappy! I do not know how I can have been so foolish as to think that you would help me, for there is nothing behind your beauty but vanity and spite, Isabella!”
With these words she fairly ran from the room, and down the stairs, letting herself out of the front door, and shutting it behind her with a slam. She entered her barouche, and told the surprised footman to direct the coachman to drive to Lord Wrotham’s lodging.
His lordship was at home, and had barely time to straighten his neckcloth, and run a hand over his tumbled locks before his visitor came tempestuously into the room.
“George!” Hero said, casting her muff on to a chair, and advancing upon him with both hands stretched out.
“My dear Lady Sheringham!” George said, bowing formally, one eye on the wooden countenance of his servant.
This individual reluctantly withdrew from the room, just as Hero cried sharply: “Oh, don’t, George! I am in such distress!”
He caught her hands, and held them warmly. “No, no, but Kitten, you must think what my man would imagine! You should not have come here!”
“No, I know I should not, but what else could I do? for I know very well you would not come to Half Moon Street.”
“Hardly!”
“Then you see that I was obliged to come!”