“Nay, fie, sir! Is not Sir John Dering accounted wholly irresistible, a wild and winning wooer, terribly tempestuous?”
“Only by idle gossip, madam. And John Derwent is the reverse of all this—a very patient lover he, full o’ reverent humility.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Duchess, and shelled three peas with rapid dexterity, which done, she glanced at Sir John with her shrewd, pretty eyes, and shook her small head decidedly. “Alas, my poor John, your reverent humility shall never win Herminia!”
Now, at this moment, Chance, Instinct or some even finer sense, caused Sir John to glance up at the adjacent wall in time to see the gleam of a white hand among the ivy that surmounted the coping; thus, when he answered, his voice was a thought louder than before:
“But, dear Mrs. Saunders, ’tis Rose and Rose only that I do so love for——”
“Stay, sir! Pray remember that Rose being Rose is yet always and ever Herminia!”
“And yet, madam, how utterly dissimilar, how vastly different! Betwixt the sweet simplicity of my gentle Rose and the cold worldliness of the arrogant Herminia, a great gulf is fixed that none may bridge saving only—Herminia. And so it is I fear.”
“For yourself?”
“For us both. I fear lest Herminia’s selfish pride bring lasting misery to poor Rose and John.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the little Duchess again, and sat turning a pea-pod idly in her small fingers. “And yet, Herminia hath a noble heart, a warmly generous nature ... though the sweet soul can be a fierce, passionate wretch.... But, alack, John, she never knew a mother’s fostering care ... she was spoiled, petted and pampered and became the idol of her wild and reckless father.... Aye me!... John Derwent, look at me and show me John Dering’s heart. Do you indeed so love—Rose?”