“Nay, aunt, ’twas Sir John Dering, weeks ago.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the little Duchess loudly, and sitting up with sudden new interest. “What of the dear man?”
“‘Dear man,’ indeed!” repeated my lady, clenching white hands and stamping both feet at once. “What of him? Oh, the devil confound him!” Here my lady’s deep bosom surged tempestuously, her eyes glowed, her delicate nostrils dilated; in fine, she manifested all those symptoms of unruly anger that may be vented only by your very great lady high above the vulgar herd, on your slatternly virago very far below. All of which the Duchess, wise in most things pertaining to her own sex, noted with her keen, shrewd eyes.
“My poor Herminia!” she sighed. “How long have ye been in love with him?”
“Love?” gasped my lady. “In love?.... Listen, aunt; I feel for him such unutterable deeps of bitter scorn, such unspeakable loathing, such a world o’ detestation that I yearn to have him truly in love with me.”
“Why, to be sure, child!” nodded the Duchess. “Most feminine, under the circumstances.”
“Aunt, could I but once see him truly serious! Could I but once shake his hateful calm, his cold, passionless self-assurance ... oh, then!”
“What then, Herminia?” At this direct question, my lady looked a trifle blank, whereupon the Duchess answered for her: “Why then, child, you would make of his passion a mock, to be sure, trample his humble love under your proud hoofs—I mean feet—laugh his suit to scorn——”
“Can you doubt it, aunt?”
“Never for one moment, my sweet.”