"And Lord Alvaston, aunt, and the Marquis, and Mr. Marchdale, and Major d'Arcy——" but Lady Belinda had fled, twittering.
Left alone, Betty grew restless, crossed to the open lattice and frowned at the flowers on the terrace, crossed to her harp in the corner and struck a discord with petulant fingers, took up her aunt's discarded book, frowned at that, dropped it; finally she sat down and propping white chin on white fist, stared down at her own pretty foot.
"I wonder if you'll come?" she murmured. "Major John, O John, you cruel Jack, I wonder if—all night long—you lay wakeful, too? I wonder—ah, I wonder if——"
A tapping at the door and, starting up, she stood bright-eyed, rosy lips apart, all shy expectancy from head to foot then, sighing, sank gracefully upon the day-bed and took up her aunt's discarded book as the door opened and the large menial announced:
"Mr. Dalroyd!"
My lady rose majestically and never had she greeted Mr. Dalroyd with such a radiant smile.
"You are come betimes, sir!" she said gently as he bowed to kiss her hand.
"Is that so great matter for wonder?" he enquired, his ardent gaze drinking in her loveliness. "You know full well, sweet Lady Coquetry, 'tis ever my joy and constant aim to—be alone with you, to touch this white hand, to kiss——"
"Fie, sir!" she sighed, but provocation was in the droop of eyelash, the tremulous curve of lip and in all the soft, voluptuous languor of her.
Mr. Dalroyd's usually pale cheek glowed, his long, white hands twitched restless fingers and he seated himself beside her.