“And she has a strong sense of duty, too; loves those whom she ought to love, and despises those whom she ought to despise. She always has done, from her infancy up to the time when she loved me and despised public opinion for my sake.”
The last remark was uttered in tones of deeper malignity, while the eyes began to glare, and the under lip to droop, and the sharp eye-teeth, which lent such a very emphatic point to all Sir Peter’s smiles, sneers, and facial movements in general, gleamed.
Adelaide’s lip quivered for a second; her color momentarily faded.
In this kind of light and agreeable badinage the meal passed over, and we were followed into the drawing-room by Sir Peter, loudly demanding “‘My Pretty Jane’—or May, or whatever it was.”
“We are going out,” said my lady. “You can have it another time. May can not sing the moment she has finished lunch.”
“Hold your tongue, my dear,” said Sir Peter; and inspired by an agreeable and playful humor, he patted his wife’s shoulder and pinched her ear.
The color fled from her very lips and she stood pale and rigid with a look in her eyes which I interpreted to mean a shuddering recoil, stopped by sheer force of will.
Sir Peter turned with an engaging laugh to me:
“Miss May—bonny May—made me a promise, and she must keep it; or if she doesn’t I shall take the usual forfeit. We know what that is. Upon my word, I almost wish she would break her promise.”
“I have no wish to break my promise,” said I, hastening to the piano, and then and there singing “My Pretty Jane,” and one or two others, after which he released us, chuckling at having contrived to keep my lady so long waiting for her drive.