"My brother—my Charles? What can you know of him—you?"
"Enough to hang him!"
Once again her laughter rang out, a joyous, rippling peal:
"O Mr. Dalroyd!" she cried at last, dabbing at her bright eyes with dainty handkerchief, "O, indeed, sir, here is trifling more to my mind—nay, prithee loose my hand!"
Mr. Dalroyd obeyed and stepped back rather hastily as the door opened and the footman announced:
"Major d'Arcy!"
The Major advanced a couple of strides then halted, fumbled with his laced hat and looked extremely uncomfortable; next moment my lady was greeting him gaily:
"Welcome, dear Major! You know Mr. Dalroyd, I think—so gay, so witty! Just now he is at his very gayest and wittiest, he is about telling me something extreme diverting in regard to my brother, my dear, wilful Charles—but you have never met my brother, I think, Major d'Arcy?"
"Never, madam!" he answered, bowing over her hand and dropping it rather as if it had stung him.
"Why then, sir," she laughed, "Mr. Dalroyd shall tell you all about him. Pray proceed, Mr. Dalroyd."