"Ah," she cried, "you say that reservedly. You, too, have guessed or at least suspected——"
"What?"
"That Mark is—jealous—of—Archie." The words dropped from her lips as if she loathed them, as if she loathed herself for speaking them. She continued quickly: "At Westchester, he was alone with me. I was thrilling with surprise and admiration. We had underrated Archie; you know that, Jim. And he had vindicated himself so gloriously. Well, Mark said nothing, not a word of praise. Oh, it was ungenerous—abominable! But I did not think so then. But now, what other interpretation can I put upon his silence?"
When she paused, Jim burst into a vehement defence of Mark. He spoke as he spoke to his clerks, clenching his fists, thrusting out his chin, repeating his phrases: "What? You say that? You use such words as abominable, ungenerous? You, Betty Kirtling? Abominable? Ungenerous? Well, if he be jealous, is it surprising, is it not most natural? Abominable? Great Scott! He looks at the man, the brother, who has everything, everything which he lacks—the physical strength, the persuasive voice, the luck—the devil's own luck—I don't pick my words, Betty Kirtling! Why—if he were not jealous, if envy at times did not tear him, he would not be Mark at all, but some impeccable, immaculate humbug! Abominable! From—you!"
Betty turned her back, and walked down the lane; Jim hesitated, and pursued.
"Betty, forgive me! I'm a brute, and this, this is your wedding-day. Here, give me your hand, both hands! That's better. Tell me I'm a beast. I deserve kicking. I'll lie down and let you wipe your boots on me. Your wedding-day—and I've treated you to this."
The feeling in his face went straight to her heart.
"It's all right, Jim," she whispered, half crying, half laughing. "And I take back—abominable." She sighed, gazing towards the downs where she and Mark had played truant. Then, with quivering lips and wet eyes, she murmured, "Poor Mark—poor Mark!" disengaged her hands, and ran down the lane and out of sight.
After the wedding there was an old-fashioned breakfast at The Whim, with toasts, speeches, cutting of cake, and so forth. Slowshire came in force, ate largely, drank deeply, and made merry in the solid, stodgy, Slowshire way. None the less, to Lady Randolph and other less acute observers, the function was somewhat depressing. The Whim, where so many cheery gatherings had taken place, had been sold. The furniture was to be moved into the Samphires' London house, while the bride and groom were on their honeymoon. The Squire's wife, in purple satin slashed with heliotrope silk, supplied every guest who belonged to the county families with details.
"The dear couple will be so comfortable. No—there is no rectory. They will live in Cadogan Place. Lord Minstead was glad to sell the lease. They say, you know, that he—pst—pst—pst——" The speaker's prominent blue eyes seemed positively to bulge from her plump, pink cheeks, as she whispered Minstead's unsavoury story into attentive ears. "But, as I was saying, our dear couple—really the handsomest couple I ever saw in my life—will be très bien installés. I am to find them a cook—fifty-five pounds a year—do you know of one? She must be a cordon bleu. Yes, a kitchen and a scullery-maid. They are very well off, very well off indeed. It is expected that they will entertain——"