"That ridiculous girl Maryllia has married her parson by this time I suppose,"—she said—"Of course it's perfectly scandalous. Lady Beaulyon was quite disgusted when she heard of it—such an alliance for a Vancourt! And Mr. and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay tell me that the man Walden is quite an objectionable person—positively boorish! It's dreadful really! But who could ever have imagined she would recover from that hunting spill? Wentworth Glynn said she was crippled for life. He told me so himself."
"Well, he was wrong evidently,"—said Roxmouth, curtly. "English surgeons are very clever, but they are not always infallible. This time an Italian has beaten them."
"Perhaps she was not so seriously injured as the local man at St.
Rest made her out to be,"—pursued her ladyship reflectively.
Roxmouth said nothing. She studied his face with amused scrutiny.
"Perhaps it was another little ruse to get rid of you and your wooing,"—she went on—"Dear me! What an extraordinary contempt Maryllia always had for you to be sure!"
He moved restlessly, and she smiled—a hard little smile.
"I guess you're hankering after her still!" she hinted.
"Your remarks are in rather bad taste,"—he rejoined, coldly, helping himself to another glass of wine.
She rose from her chair, and came round the table to where he sat, laying a heavily jewelled hand on his shoulder.
"Well, you've got ME!" she said—"And all I'm worth! And you 'love' me, don't you?"