Her expression changed, changed so sharply that he looked around, following the direction of her glance, and saw the face of the man he hated—the Irish Jacobite. Lord Clancarty stood just within the door, his eyes holding Betty’s against her will. Savile heard her quick gasp, saw her hands flutter, and he thrust himself between with a black look at Clancarty. But Lady Betty, trying to collect herself, met young Mackie’s eyes and saw that he knew. The blood rushed to her temples but she laughed.
“My lord,” she said to Devonshire, “does your horse run to-day? or my Lord Savile’s gray mare?”
Devonshire smiled. “Both, my lady,” he said, “and Savile will be a bankrupt before night—in all but love, I suspect.”
“A poor substitute for a full purse, my lord,” she said recklessly, without taking thought of her words until she felt rather than saw Clancarty’s grave look at her. “I mean,” she stammered, “in my Lord Savile’s case—” and then she stopped, covered with confusion.
Never had Lady Betty made so many mistakes, but young Mackie came valiantly to her aid.
“Have you heard the rumor that the King of Spain is dying?” he asked innocently.
“He has been dying for a long time,” remarked Mr. Benham laughing, “and the King of France and the emperor are dying of anxiety.”
“Precisely, and but for our king there would be a war for the succession within a week,” said Devonshire thoughtfully; “as it is, the peace of Europe hangs by a thread—the narrow thread of a sickly man’s life.”
“Yes,” put in Betty, herself again, “and Parliament is for cutting down the military establishment.”
Devonshire smiled. “The people do not love a standing army, Lady Clancarty,” he replied.