“If an enemy of my husband called, and was penitent, I should—offer her tea, no doubt.”
“That is, in this country; but in your own country, which, I believe, is different, what would you do?” Mrs. Armour looked steadily and coldly into her visitor’s eyes.
“In my country enemies do not compel us to be polite.”
“By calling on you?” Lady Haldwell was growing a little reckless. “But then, that is a savage country. We are different here. I suppose, however, your husband told you of these things, so that you were not surprised. And when does he come? His stay is protracted. Let me see, how long is it? Ah yes, near four years.” Here she became altogether reckless, which she regretted afterwards, for she knew, after all, what was due herself. “He will comeback, I suppose?”
Lady Haldwell was no coward, else she had hesitated before speaking in that way before this woman, in whose blood was the wildness of the heroical North. Perhaps she guessed the passion in Lali’s breast, perhaps not. In any case she would have said what she listed at the moment.
Wild as were the passions in Lali’s breast, she thought on the instant of her child, of what Richard Armour would say; for he had often talked to her about not showing her emotions and passions, had told her that violence of all kinds was not wise or proper. Her fingers ached to grasp this beautiful, exasperating woman by the throat. But after an effort at calmness she remained still and silent, looking at her visitor with a scornful dignity. Lady Haldwell presently rose,—she could not endure the furnace of that look,—and said good-bye. She turned towards the door. Mrs. Armour remained immovable. At that instant, however, some one stepped from behind a large screen just inside the door. It was Richard Armour. He was pale, and on his face was a sternness the like of which this and perhaps only one other woman had ever seen on him. He interrupted her.
“Lady Haldwell has a fine talent for irony,” he said, “but she does not always use it wisely. In a man it would bear another name, and from a man it would be differently received.” He came close to her. “You are a brave woman,” he said, “or you would have been more careful. Of course you knew that my mother and sister were not at home?”
She smiled languidly. “And why ‘of course’?”
“I do not know that; only I know that I think so; and I also think that my brother Frank’s worst misfortune did not occur when Miss Julia Sherwood trafficked without compunction in his happiness.”
“Don’t be oracular, my dear Richard Armour,” she replied. “You are trying, really. This seems almost melodramatic; and melodrama is bad enough at Drury Lane.”