Lady Breadalbane rose and came up behind her.
“Ulrica Dalrymple, ye no’ tell the truth when ye say ye ar’na’ ill—”
The other rose desperately.
“It is naught,” she said, and drew her fichu closer round her shoulders. “I—I—”
“I will be calling your woman or Sir John.”
“Oh, no,” was the vehement answer, “I beseech you, madam, that you will not.”
So wild and white she looked, so desperately she trembled and clasped her shaking hands on her bosom, that the other woman stood arrested, staring at her. The Countess shared the common knowledge of Sir John’s domestic affairs, and as she looked at his wife her thoughts leaped to a swift conclusion.
“Ulrica—has he been laying hands on ye?” she asked. “Sir John, I mean.”
“No, no,” answered Lady Dalrymple desperately. “My God, no, how dare you ask me?”
Lady Breadalbane looked at her unmoved.