And she courtesied prettily before she laid her hand lightly on the stranger’s arm and moved at his side through the throng toward the open heath beyond. Their progress was necessarily slow, and followed by many admiring glances, for the roses had deepened in Lady Betty’s cheeks. The tall Irishman beside her was no less a striking figure; his height and proportions, the clean-cut face, steel-gray eyes, and close-shut thin lips had a history of their own; no one could doubt it.
As for Lord Savile, he stood fuming and vowing vengeance on the cursed Irish Jacobite, as he was pleased to name his rival; if a stanch Whig hated any man, by instinct, he must needs be a Papist and a Jacobite.
CHAPTER VIII
LADY BETTY AND AN IRISH JACOBITE
LADY BETTY and her companion walked on. The crowd, still huzzaing and noisy about the victors, was dropped behind them, all its gorgeous colors knotted into one huge rosette upon the track; beyond were green meadows and the blue shadows of a grove of limes. The two walked slowly, Lady Betty a little in advance, her long skirts gathered in one hand, the other holding her fan, the sun and the breeze kissing the soft curves of her cheeks. Beside her, holding his hat behind his back, was Richard Trevor, his eyes on her, while hers were on the landscape; the long, level stretch of turf, the grove of limes, and farther off—veiled in golden mist—the wavy outlines of forest and hills. Above, the sky was blue—blue as larkspur; the air was sweet too, as if the fragrance of flowers floated on the soft September breeze. A flock of pigeons, with the whir of many wings, rose from the ground as Betty approached, and she looked up after them and sighed.
“Is it true that the French king wears red heels to his shoes?” she asked suddenly and quite irrelevantly.
Mr. Trevor started perceptibly, giving her a quizzical glance.
“They are frequently purple,” he replied, with perfect gravity.