In a rare mood of recklessness she seated herself at the white and silver bureau and drew out a sheet of paper. But ere her hand could trace any of her confused thoughts the sound of the opening door alarmed her.
In the doorway stood the Countess Peggy, surveying her with sharp green eyes under the shade of her feathered hat.
“Weel,” she said with her usual self-possession, “I will have been saying for some time now that I would come and see ye, and to-day I came. But your servant will not be knowing where ye are, and so they put me in a vast room ower dark, and I grew weary of waiting, so started to find ye.”
Lady Dalrymple could do nothing but look at her in a dazed manner and falter something below her breath. The Countess crossed over to her, looking vivid, brilliant and splendid in the pale room; the winter air had touched her cheeks with an apple-blossom red; her lithe figure carried regally her green velvet gown and her trailing furs.
She sank onto the little settee and looked across at the white silent woman at the bureau.
“Why, ye are ill!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, no!” said Lady Dalrymple faintly. “You must, madam, excuse me—you startled me.”
But the sharp eyes of the Countess Peggy were not to be deceived. “What has happened?” she demanded.
Lady Dalrymple writhed under this intrusion. She fixed her eyes on the blank sheet of paper as if to encourage herself in an ebbing resolution.
“Madam—I assure you,” she began.