“A fine diversion,” remarked Lord Spencer, with a sneer, “but who, pray, was your companion?”
Lady Betty gave him a sidelong look that spoke volumes.
“Faith,” she retorted, with a shrug, “the world would be a dull place with no men in it.”
Lady Sunderland tittered behind her fan; if anything appealed to her, it was her daughter’s absolute audacity. But Spencer was furious.
“You choose a fine subject for a jest,” he said; “I would have you know, madam, that my sister cannot run about Newmarket with a groom!”
Then Betty turned upon him like a fury.
“Do not dare to say that to me again,” she cried, her bosom heaving with passion; “you forget to whom you speak! Do you think—do you dare to think—that I am not as capable as you of defending my own honor and dignity? More, sir, I would have you know that I am accountable to none but my father and—my husband!” and she swept past him and out of the room like a whirlwind.
The older countess sank back in her chair and giggled like a girl.
“La!” she exclaimed, “her spirit!—I’d give ten guineas to see her do that over again,—and you deserved it, Charles, my love.”
Her son gave her an exasperated look.