Uttering an inarticulate cry my lady sprang to her feet.
"Did he see—did he see?" she demanded breathlessly, "Charles—O Charles—did he see?"
"Begad, I fear he did—why Bet—Betty—good God—what is it?" For, covering her face, Betty had cowered away to the wall and leaned there.
"What will he think!" she murmured. "O what will he think of me?"
My lord stood speechless awhile, his delicate features twitching with emotion as he watched her bowed form.
"Betty dear," said he tenderly at last, "doth it matter to thee—so much?"
"Charles!" she cried, "O Charles!" and in that stricken cry and the agony of the face she lifted, he read her answer.
"Dearest," said he after awhile, clasping his arm about her, "here is no cause for grief. I'll go to him in—in these curst floppy things—he shall see for himself and I'll tell him all——"
"No!" said she rising and throwing up proud head. "I'll die first! We will go through with it to the end—nobody shall know until you are safe—none but you and I and Aunt Belinda. To speak now were to ruin all. So, my Charles, whatsoe'er befall you shall not speak—I forbid it!"
"Forgive me, Bess," he pleaded, "wilt forgive me for jeopardising thy—thy happiness so?"