“La, now, ain’t you cautious!” he cried, with his pale blue eyes wide open. “You ain’t afraid of Caryl! Sink me if it don’t look like it—why Jerome Caryl is to be trusted like your own right hand.”
“I hav’na’ a doot of it,” she answered quickly. “But there is na occasion for ony more than need to be kenning the part my lord takes in this—”
At this a murmur arose from those who had been hushed to catch her words; Porter demanded why Breadalbane should always be shielded when better men came to the fore; and Celia Hunt muttered an audible sneer about Scottish caution.
The Countess Peggy looked round the company defiantly; her eyes fell mistrustfully to the unmoved face of Jerome Caryl; an unpleasant pause was broken by the Earl of Argyll, coming forward.
“I’m awa’,” he said, lapsing in his agitation into a broad accent. “I’m no’ meddling any further—I came for a paper—the whilk is burnt and I’m ganging—I willna’ listen to yer treasonable practices—no, but I wish ye success,” he added hastily, “but I’m ganging.”
His cousin turned on him.
“Then gang, cousin Archibald,” she said angrily. “Take your puir white face awa’—I willna’ come with ye—I’m staying.”
This redeemed her with the company who murmured approval, under cover of which Argyll slipped out.
“Supposing he goes straight to my cousin at Kensington?” asked Berwick, looking after the Earl.
“He willna’,” answered the Countess hastily, “he has gone too deep—he willna’ dare to open up what will be exposing himself.”