“Finish your letter,” she said calmly. “I would no’ be disturbing ye.”
But the anger of Sir John’s wife had flamed up only to die out and leave the ashes of utter misery behind.
“I will not write it,” she replied. “God forgive that I ever thought I would.”
She sank down on the other end of the settee, too overwrought to conceal her distress, and Lady Breadalbane’s clear eyes measured her curiously.
There was a silence of seconds, then the Countess spoke.
“Ye are very unhappy, Ulrica Dalrymple—ye seem to have made a fine confusion of your life—and I would tell ye that ye will no’ be bettering it by puling and whimpering.”
Lady Dalrymple turned wild eyes to her.
“What do you know of any of it?” she asked.
“Weel, I ken somewhat,” was the composed answer. “And I’m sorry for ye—but I dinna think that ye will improve your lord’s temper with a gloomy face and a moping manner.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lady Dalrymple faintly.