“Ah! Frances!” cried Lady Anne, in a deprecating tone, with a gesture of supplication and anguish in her eyes, “do let me rest!”
“Never, till I have the letter.”
With the energy of anger and despair Lady Anne made an effort to reach the bell-cord—but it missed—the cord swung—Petcalf ran to catch it, and stumbled over a stool—English Clay stood still and laughed—French Clay exclaimed, “Ah! mon Dieu! Cupidon!”
Count Altenberg saved Cupid from falling, and rang the bell.
“Sir,” said Lady Anne to the footman, “I had a letter—some time this morning, in my hand.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I want it.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Pray, sir, tell somebody to tell Pritchard, to tell Flora, to go up stairs to my dressing-room, sir, to look every where for’t; and let it be brought to my sister, Lady Frances, if you please, sir.”
“No, no, sir, don’t do any thing about the matter, if you please—I will go myself,” said Lady Frances.