Betty stood a moment at the threshold. Clancarty was beside her, his face quite grave. She looked up; the impulse was in her heart to speak and their eyes met but his were cold.
“You choose wisely, my lady,” he said, in a bitter undertone, “a full purse is better than a beggarly love, it seems.”
She flushed crimson.
Savile thrust himself forward and held out his hand.
“Permit me to put you in your chair, my lady,” he said, grace and courtesy personified; handsome, well dressed, courtly, the very picture of a deferential lover.
“A thousand thanks, my lord,” she said sweetly, putting her hand in his.
He put her in her chair and the procession started, Lady Sunderland screaming to the toy-man about the careful packing of her dragon, and Betty looked out smiling, more charming than ever.
A moment afterwards, Clancarty and Savile faced each other.
“This very evening would be propitious, my lord,” said the Irishman coolly, “the same spot, I believe, and the same seconds?”
“At your service, sir,” said Savile fiercely, “and damn you, I mean to kill you!”