“Nay, madam,” said the poor handmaid; “I noticed naught but his bold eyes; I was afraid of him.”
“Nonsense!” Lady Betty exclaimed with a gesture of impatience; and she tripped lightly to the window and stood looking out over the moonlit park.
Alice yawned, drawing herself together on the edge of her bed in a crumpled attitude, one pink foot swinging near the floor; she was fairly nodding with sleep. Not so her mistress. Lady Betty brushed the soft hair from her face and stood in the moonlight a lovely figure, half revealed and half concealed by thin white draperies.
“I wonder,” she said musingly, “if—if Clancarty looks at all like this man?”
“I cannot tell, madam,” replied Alice demurely; “but it may be so.”
“You rogue!” laughed her mistress, “you would insinuate that two rakes may well resemble each other! Ah, Alice, he is my husband, mind you that, and a woman’s husband is not as other men.”
“You know him not at all, my lady,” yawned Alice, rubbing her eyes, “and if he’s like some—”
“Fudge, my girl, what do you know of husbands?” said Betty gayly; “I believe you have never even glanced out of the tail of that blue eye of yours at any bold gallant yet.”
The handmaid sighed sleepily.
“’Tis better so, my lady,” she said meekly.