“I am much beholden to your—charity,” he said haughtily.
She glanced round, saw his expression, and the blood flew into her face.
“Spare your gratitude, my lord,” she said bitterly, “I would have done as much for any.”
He frowned. “I did not think that I evoked your peculiar solicitude,” he answered. “Doubtless you like to display your exemption from the hatred my house is held in.”
“My lord!” she cried, “that savors of your father’s tongue—and is unworthy.”
“You must pardon me,” he said in a proud voice, “but I am not used, madam, to be an object of pity.”
Lady Stair gazed from the window blindly on the dark streets.
“I did not use the word, my lord.”
“Madam, you performed the act.”
She turned suddenly in a half-desperate manner. “Do you suppose that I want to see you hurt—or killed?” she asked.