“You are a woman,” smiled the Viscount. “I think you have some curiosity.”
“Believe me—none in these affairs of blood—”
He turned on her with a soft quickness. “How do you know that they are ‘affairs of blood’?” he asked.
She stood silent with a frightened face.
“Take care,” said the Viscount, rising. “If John is imprudent, he is also violent—the matters that he deals in will bear no meddling of yours.”
She shrank away from him.
“Why do you so goad me, my lord?” she said in a trembling defiance. “I came here to avoid my husband, since he declared the sight of me irks him—and then you turn on me—what are you trying to drive me to between you?”
“Merely prudence,” answered the Viscount. “A little prudence and discretion.” And he left the room with an indescribable air of cold avoidance.
Lady Dalrymple looked after him with fear and loathing, then sank down into the chair by the fire and gazed listlessly before her, her hands clasped on her knees; her full pink gown, her undressed pale hair under the white lace knotted at her chin, the muslin fichu across her bosom and the glittering gold and purple flowers on her white satin overskirt, made her a figure of brilliant fairness in the somber gorgeous room.
The diamonds in her ears winked in the firelight and the paste buckles of her red silk shoes shone beneath her skirt; round her neck hung a broad mauve ribbon, the end of which was tucked into the gold lace of her bodice.