“In Elizabeth Clancarty,” corrected the countess, flashing an indignant glance at him.
“You are marvellously proud of that beggar’s name,” retorted her brother, with cutting irony.
Lady Clancarty’s face crimsoned with anger.
“You are a hypocrite, Spencer!” she said, stamping her foot.
“Family insults in public are always becoming,” said Lord Spencer, controlling himself with an effort, but white to the lips.
“Forsooth, who began it?” recriminated his high-spirited sister; “you might better indeed talk of other things. Of your fine clothes, for instance; you are truly ‘the glass of fashion,’ my lord, pink satin waistcoat and breeches, gray plush coat, point of Venice ruffles, white silk stockings, clocked, too, with pink, French shoes and buckles,—mercy on us, sir! what splendor for beggarly Lady Clancarty and quiet Althorpe!”
Lord Spencer, who was indeed dressed in the extreme of fashion, bit his lip, scowling darkly at Lady Betty and Alice, who remained discreetly in the background.
“You do well to boast of your dishonored name, madam,” he said coldly, “but my Lord Sunderland intends that you shall be divorced from that disreputable Irish rebel.”
“And what if I will not, my lord?” asked the countess, her face blazing with defiance.
“You are a fool,” said Spencer sharply; “happy you would be—dragged into exile by a rake and a scapegrace—but, pshaw! what nonsense I talk—”