“Permit me, madam, to escort you to our mother,” he said so suavely that the culprit shivered.
“I can go quite well alone, Charles,” she replied passing him with a careless manner that was scarcely a faithful indication of her mood; “I am too weary to drink tea or play gleek,” she added yawning; “faith, ’tis tiresome to walk in the fields.”
“Extremely so,” replied my lord, as smooth as silk, “especially when you bring wood briars back upon your farthingale.”
Lady Betty blushed red as a poppy as she glanced down at the tell-tale twig caught in the ruffles of her skirts.
“Pull it off, my dear,” she said sweetly.
“Nay, I fear the thorns,” he replied, with distant politeness.
She plucked it away herself with a little grimace.
“You are wise, Charles,” she said, “’tis well to keep your fingers out of other people’s troubles.”
He bit his lip, giving her a furious glance as she tripped up the stairs ahead of him. But, though he followed more deliberately, he entered Lady Sunderland’s room but a moment after her, and in time to hear her reply to his mother’s sharp inquiry.
“I walked a little way in the meadows, madam,” said Betty, with delightful mendacity; “you know you recommended it for my complexion.”