"It is not about your cousin; she is only the ambassadress. It concerns her timid little friend, Selina Boyle."
"What have either to do with Rose?" demanded Marius.
"It is for me to ask that," she answered. "As for you, you must know something. He always admired her, did he not? He made her the toast at the Wells—before he married money. It is all very romantic. He asks her to keep single for his sake—he of all men!—and she refuses a good match, and it gets into the papers, this sentimental story."
With that my lady threw back her head and watched her darts take effect. He was openly restive under her scrutiny, uneasy too it seemed, and troubled.
"What has this to do with Miss Chressham?" he asked.
The Countess lifted her dead-white shoulders.
"She is the mediator—the friend of Miss Boyle. She hates me, of course. Why not?" A smile curled the thin vermilion lips. "And there is Sir Francis, a good youth, honestly in love. Is my lord too jaded to be goaded into a meeting? Perhaps not, so consultations, tears, and Susannah Chressham pledging herself to prevent bloodshed, Miss Boyle in despair, and the world laughing!"
Marius took a quick turn away from her, then back again. She sat forward, the flame-coloured domino falling apart over the purple dress, the black yet gleaming fan held across her knee like a weapon. The mirror behind reflected her heavy grey curls, the stiff bright roses in among the wreathed pearls and her bare white shoulders.
"Should I laugh, Marius?" she asked, and her luminous eyes were wild.