Delia’s brown eyes swept over her.
“No,” she answered coldly, then with sudden force. “Yes—in terrible trouble—but in want, madam, of neither pity nor comfort.”
“Alas!” said Lady Dalrymple. “I would not so repulse either were they offered me—and do not you be hard to me—for I would help you an’ I could.”
“Madam, you cannot—in myself alone lies help—and you—do you lack pity or sympathy?” The tone was coldly contemptuous, but Lady Dalrymple answered gently.
“I did not say so, madam—I say I would not refuse them.”
“Madam—” said Delia. “Who are you?”
“I am Lady Dalrymple,” was the quiet answer, “and at your service.”
Delia drew herself together and held her head still higher.
“I want not your help,” she said coldly. “Why was I brought here—I did not come to see you.”
“My husband,” said Lady Dalrymple gently, “is full of affairs—you must pardon him if he keeps you waiting.”