"If that is the Irish code," he said gravely. "I'm afraid Ireland only echoes the rest of Europe. Assumption is the art of the twentieth century. The man who can assume most, climbs highest! Isn't that so, Lady Frances?"
He turned to their hostess.
Clodagh stood silent. She was filled with a humiliating, childish sensation of having been rebuked—rebuked by some one whose natural superiority placed him beyond reach of childish temper or childish violence. The sensation that many a time in old and distant days had sent her flying to the shelter of Hannah's arms, rose intolerably keen. With a defiant sense of futility and loneliness, she turned away from the little group—only to encounter the pallid face and stiff, distinguished figure of Lord Deerehurst, as he came slowly towards her across the room.
Extending his hand, he took her fingers and bowed over them.
"Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "I have just been mentally accusing Lady Frances of surrounding me by so many acquaintances that I could not find one friend. Now I desire to retract!"
In the sudden relief—the sudden touch of unexpected flattery—Clodagh's mobile face underwent a change.
"Then you have found a friend?" she said.
At sound of the words, Sir Walter Gore involuntarily turned; and, seeing the old peer, made a slight movement of surprise and extended his hand.
"Lord Deerehurst!" he said. "I did not know you were in Venice!"
They shook hands without cordiality; and having murmured some conventional remark, the older man turned again to Clodagh.