“Reassure yourself, my Lord. Mrs. Fenton writ me fully. She is in excellent hands—her mother and her aunt. Shall we return to the company?”
“But Madam—Madam!” he almost caught her robe as she turned—“Are you certain your information came from her? May I see the billet? I know her hand well——”
“And how?” asked the Duchess, stepping back and fixing him with her eyes.
“Because she has wrote often to me. Because she is mine—heart and body. Therefore you will conceive my terror to hear——”
“I don’t believe it. You lie,” she said, and there was a dead silence. What shall a man do when a lady and such a lady insults him with a word that only blood can wash out? His habitual composure stood him in good stead. White to the lips he faced her.
“It is a cowardice peculiar to your sex, Madam, to insult a man who can make neither return nor defence. I pass that by, however, until you shall appoint your champion. I assert that Mrs. Fenton is my mistress, and on that ground, request you to tell me what you know.”
’Twas a bold throw. If he could alienate her friends—if he could leave her no refuge but himself, might not the terrified bird fly to his breast—her only refuge? And what matter’s a player’s reputation? She has none—’tis but a jest to laugh at. Who can destroy what has no existence?
The Duchess, now as cool as he, considered a little before replying.
“My Lord, I make no apology for my candour for I still believe you lie and partly see your motive, nor shall I show you the letter, neither. She’s with her friends and will return tomorrow.”
“This is Sunday and so a difficult day,” cried he, “but I beseech you, Madam to hear me, even if you distrust me. ’Tis said all about Portugal Street and the neighbourhood that Mrs. Fenton entered her chair as usual after the play, and was carried off.”