“I shall be jealous of Mavis Clare,” I said playfully.
“Most men are!” she replied quietly.
“You are indeed an enthusiastic partisan of hers!” I exclaimed, somewhat surprised.
“Yes, I suppose I am. I like to see any member of my sex distinguish herself as nobly as she does. I have no genius of my own, and that is one of the reasons why I honour it so much in other women.”
[p 160]
I was about to make some suitable compliment by way of response to this remark, when we were all violently startled from our seats by a most horrible cry,—a gasping scream such as might be wrung from some tortured animal. Aghast at the sound we stood for a moment inert, staring at Rimânez, who came quickly towards us with an air of grave concern.
“I am afraid,” he said softly—“that the Countess is not so well,—perhaps you had better go to her—”
Another shriek interrupted his words, and transfixed with horror we saw Lady Elton struggling in the throes of some sudden and terrific convulsion, her hands beating the air as if she were fighting with an unseen enemy. In one second her face underwent such hideous contortions as robbed it of all human semblance, and between the agonized pantings of her difficult breath, her half-choked voice could be heard uttering wild cries—
“Mercy!—mercy!—oh God—God! Tell Sibyl!—pray—pray to God,—pray—”
And with that she fell heavily back, speechless and unconscious.
All was instant confusion. Lady Sibyl rushed to her mother’s side, with Miss Charlotte,—Diana Chesney hung back trembling and afraid,—Lord Elton sprang to the bell and rang it furiously.