“An idle boast, sir,” she said carelessly; “no woman would be lightly won after years of neglect.”
“Nor should be,” he replied, in a deep tone of emotion, “nor should be! By the Virgin, Clancarty ought to go on his knees from Munster to Althorpe in penitence.”
“Faith, what would he do about the Channel, Mr. Trevor?” she asked wickedly.
“Swim it, madam,” he replied promptly; “a true man and a lover would not drown—with such a saint enshrined before him.”
“A Protestant saint for a Papist penitent,” remarked Lady Betty smiling; “what a poor consolation.”
“Love laughs at obstacles, my Lady Clancarty,” said Mr. Trevor, “and it forgets creed.”
“Oh!” she said and her brows went up.
“There is one excuse, though,” he went on, “one—or I would never speak to Donough Macarthy again.”
“Oh, there is one, then?” she asked doubtfully.
“One—yes,” he replied gravely; “he is a proscribed exile, madam, this king of yours has excepted him from the Act of Grace; he cannot return except, indeed, to the Tower and the block. But, after all, to lose a head is less than to lose a heart.”