“Yes,” said Delia with wild eyes. “Yes.”
Lady Dalrymple again studied her a moment.
“Alas! A matter of life—or death?” she said.
“Yes,” answered Delia hoarsely.
“Poor soul!” cried Lady Dalrymple. “Indeed, you must tell it me—”
At the sympathy in her voice and face Delia turned in an agony that almost broke beyond control.
“You must not ask me,” she panted. “I pray you that you do not question me.”
“But I might serve you,” said Lady Dalrymple. The fair face framed in the lace scarce was grieved, tender, a little wondering.
“Doubtless,” answered Delia, forcing back her unnatural calm, “Sir John’s wife would have great influence with her lord—yet will I even do without her favor.”
And she smiled very bitterly.