“We shall call her ladyship divine, if she wills it,” replied Lord Savile, with a smile at Betty; “it is all one to us as long as she is pleased.”
Lady Clancarty’s foot tapped the floor impatiently and there was a dangerous sparkle in her eyes. Lady Sunderland observed her uneasily.
“My love, you are tired,” she said, mildly solicitous, “sit down and let me send for a cup of tea; Mr. Benham—ah, my lord, thank you, yes, the bell—a dish of tea for Lady Spen—Lady Clancarty. There—there, my dear, don’t frown at me; it is all quite ridiculous! Mr. Benham will arrange the cushions in that chair for you; I don’t know what I should do without him! We were playing gleek, Betty, when you were announced.”
Betty was now ensconced in an armchair by the fire, her little feet on the cushion that Mr. Benham had placed for her; and she viewed the situation with an expression more composed.
“Yes, I take tea,” she said to Lord Savile, who was handing her a smoking cup, “and what is this?” she added, for he had managed to drop a flower from his buttonhole into her lap with an air of gallantry.
“A poor blossom,” he said gracefully, “to compare with such a rose as blooms here to-night.”
Lady Betty looked at him and then at the flower curiously.
“Ah,” she said calmly sipping her tea, “it is a rose—I thought ’twas a thistle!”
Lady Sunderland coughed and dropped her fan and frowned at her daughter; but the incorrigible countess did not glance in her direction. She was smiling blandly at the fire and warming first one foot and then the other.
“You are from Althorpe?” Mr. Benham asked, smiling at the beauty, for he was not displeased at Lord Savile’s discomfiture; “and my friend, Spencer, is there now.”