“The poppies of Neerwinden, I am told,” replied the Irishman.
Lord Savile’s face turned scarlet. “A very vile joke, sir,” he said, in a low voice, “and one you may repent of—here!”
“When I am in the society of informers—it may be so,” replied Trevor haughtily and very low, intending it only for my lord’s ear, but Lady Betty heard it.
“I would fain walk a little way,” she said suddenly, turning on them, “they will not race again for half an hour, and I feel the heat here. My Lord Savile, will you make way for me through the crowd?”
“I will, my lady,” Trevor said, offering his arm.
“Nay, sir,” retorted Savile, “I am the lady’s friend, not you.”
Trevor noticed him as little as a poodle; he still smiled and offered his hand to Lady Betty.
“Lady Clancarty will choose, sir, not you,” he said contemptuously.
“Lady Clancarty will go with me,” cried Savile, hotly and authoritatively.
“Faith, she will not, sir,” said Betty laughing; “Lady Clancarty will be commanded by none, my lord, and Mr. Trevor will do her this small service. But there are my thanks for your kindness.”