“Indeed!” she exclaimed; “yet you told me you had only met him—twice.”
“In two places,” corrected Mr. Trevor quite unmoved, “but frequently. He’s a fine man, madam, take my word for it; I love him like a brother; he has only one fault, madam, one sin, and that, I’ll admit, is unpardonable.”
“And that?” she queried, with uplifted brows, a little haughtily.
“And that,” replied Mr. Trevor calmly, “is the fact that he has been able to live for fourteen years without his wife.”
Lady Clancarty flushed angrily, and then she laughed that delicious, mirthful laugh of hers.
“He has existed, sir,” she corrected him, “because he never knew how delightful Lady Clancarty is.”
“Exactly,” replied Trevor, “a mere existence; life uncrowned by love—such love as he ought to have won, confound him—is not life. He might as well be a turnip.”
“So I have always thought,” she replied, with a charming smile; “but then, you know, Mr. Trevor, he might not have been able to win it.”
“Not win it!” he exclaimed, “not win it, when he is a husband to begin with. By Saint Patrick, madam, I’d cut his acquaintance for life! Not win it? What cannot a man do under the inspiration of a beautiful and noble woman? Kingdoms have been won and lost for them. If Troy fell for Helen, an empire might well fall for a woman as beautiful and far more womanly. I’d run Clancarty through, my lady, if he were not willing to die for his true love. Irishmen are not made of such poor stuff. No, no, he would win it, never fear.”
Lady Betty’s chin was up and her eyes travelling over the green turf again.