“Brothers often are, Betty,” remarked the earl smiling; “you must have other and gayer company. In fact, I was but now planning to send you to Newmarket for the races; Lady Sunderland is there, Spencer is going, and I go presently. You have lived too much in retirement here; you must go to Newmarket and hear gayer talk than the discourses of our young sage.”
“I shall be glad to escape the oracle,” said the countess; but she glanced searchingly at her father and added quietly, “My retirement becomes me, sir; I am practically a widow.”
The earl’s expression changed a trifle, but such a trifle that his daughter made little of it.
“We will not refer to that unhappy contract,” he said smoothly; “it was an error on my part, Elizabeth, and I assure you I repent it.”
“Has Lord Clancarty written to you, father?” she asked, so abruptly that Sunderland started, and for an instant his eye faltered under hers, and he hesitated before he was himself again.
“Never,” he said calmly, closing his silver snuff-box and giving the lid a friendly little tap.
His momentary confusion, though, was nearly his undoing; his daughter laid a white hand on his arm.
“He has written you,” she said imperiously, “and lately, too!”
“Upon my word, Elizabeth,” said the earl frowning, “you go too far.”
“I cannot help it,” she cried impetuously. “Have I no rights? Ought it to be concealed from me and confided to my brother, who only taunts me? My husband has written you!”