“I beseech your ladyship’s pardon,” he said, graceful and gracious—but not one whit abashed, “my eyes were dazzled—else they would have made no such mistake.”
But Betty would not be appeased; like a child who has been naughty and repented, she tried to appear as if it had not been. She was cold and haughty.
“Sir, I would merely warn you to be less careless of your French gold at Northampton,” she said; “we do not love St. Germain here,” and with a courtesy as low as his bow she left him.
Left him staring after her with a glow in his gray eyes.
Alice Lynn usually slept in a little anteroom of Lady Betty’s bedchamber, and that night as she lay abed she was awakened suddenly. The room was full of moonlight, and in it stood Lady Betty in her night-rail,—a charming figure, with softly dishevelled hair about her shoulders, and eyes that seemed to sparkle in the pale duskiness of her face. The tirewoman started up in alarm.
“My lady, oh, my lady!” she cried, “are you ill? Has aught happened?”
“Hush, no, no!” whispered Lady Betty, with a soft little laugh; “but, Alice, didn’t you notice that he said ‘by Saint Patrick’?”
“He! Who?” groaned poor Alice sleepily.
“The stranger, little goose!”