It was while they talked that Alice came by chance upon Denis on the staircase; Denis was smiling like a cherub. He stood before her awkwardly.
“Faix,” he said, “I was afther thinking ye a sneak, my darlint, but, shure, I misjudged ye,” he paused, shuffling his feet with unfamiliar shyness in his aspect, while Alice eyed him with prim disapproval.
“My darlint,” he said, “I’m afther makin’ some aminds fer th’ batin’; will—will ye be Mrs. Dinis now?”
But Alice withered him with a look.
“There’s no need of ill will, my darlint,” he continued nervously; “faix, I know a man that always bates his wife whin his affection overcomes him.”
“You don’t know me!” exclaimed Alice indignantly, red as a poppy.
Denis, not a whit abashed, would have caught her hand.
“There’s nathing in th’ wurrld to kape us from gittin’ acquainted, me love,” he said gallantly.
“Deliver me from a bloody Papist!” said Alice piously, escaping up the stair and leaving Denis grinning openly in his relief, for he had contemplated a noble sacrifice of his own feelings.
Meanwhile Lady Russell and the countess had descended to the drawing-room again to await my Lord of Devonshire’s arrival. Like a rose, Betty had bloomed out with joy, radiant in her beautiful gown, trembling and impatient. She paced the floor, Lady Russell watching her.