“Mrs. Coward?” I gasped.
“Yes. Don’t mean to say you didn’t know she was here?”
“I did not!” I could barely articulate. And a perturbed glance from Agatha increased my consternation. “When did she come?”
“Three or four days ago—Oh, yes, she said you had left the same morning for your camping tramp.”
“Whom is she visiting? I had no idea the aristocracies would mix.”
“Mrs. Laurence. Don’t you like Mrs. Coward?”
“I am glad she is visiting Mrs. Laurence. I should say they would scratch each other’s eyes out immediately.”
“I’m disappointed you don’t like her. I hoped you’d have her in the house a lot. She’s a long sight the most fascinating American I ever met—a regular ripper, by gad!”
I don’t know how I controlled myself, but I knew that if I said too much and suggested opposition Bertie would be on his hind legs at once.
This was what she had up her sleeve, Polly. What deceit, what treachery, what sneakingness. Only a widow would be capable of such a thing. But I must say I respect her. She fooled me completely. I could not have been capable of so clever a revenge, and I detest her for it, because she has not the true sporting instinct, but she is to be reckoned with all the same. In spite of her platitudes and her ingenuous pride in the seven generations, she is both clever and deep—when her pride is in arms, and revenge and ambition both spur her on to capture a duke.