“Because, I suppose, it is a royal color,” she remarked absently; “you are a Jacobite, Mr. Trevor.”
“Either my disguise is a flimsy one, or your penetration is great, Lady Clancarty,” he replied, with a whimsical smile; “but I’ll swear I’m not alone at Newmarket.”
Lady Betty elevated her brows a little.
“It has been frequently hinted that King William was one,” she remarked tranquilly.
“By the Whigs out of office,” he said, with a short, hard laugh; “he is not counted one on the Continent.”
“Or in Ireland,” she said; “you were at Londonderry, of course.”
“There were two sides to the wall at Londonderry, my lady,” he replied; “I was on one—I’ll admit that.”
“It is safe not to be explicit,” she said smiling; “you are an Irishman, a Papist, and a Jacobite,” she told off each point on her fingers, “and you are from Munster.”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Trevor, with great composure; “you have nailed me to the wall, madam; I am a sinner of the blackest dye, a subject for the gallows.”
“So I supposed,” she said cheerfully, nodding her head at him, “and being all these things, and from the Continent, can you tell me—” for the first time she hesitated, stopped short, looking at the turf under her daintily shod feet, her face crimson.