Lady Betty laughed.
“Only one can recover a heart,” she said wickedly, “but a head—I never heard of one that was put on after the headsman.”
“Nor I,” he admitted, “but, after all, one can die but once.”
“And one can love many times,” suggested Betty; “I have heard that my Lord Clancarty’s heart is tender.”
“Mere fables, madam,” he replied, with cool mendacity; “his heart is made for one image only and would keep that—to eternity.”
“His must be a valuable and rare heart,” Lady Clancarty remarked demurely, “too good, sir, to exchange for a human one.”
“Verily too good to give without a fair exchange, madam,” he replied, smiling audaciously; “nor will Clancarty cast it by the wayside. I know him for a man who will love and be loved again. He’s no moonstruck youth, my lady; when he gives he will demand a return.”
She carried her head proudly. “He should have to win it,” she said.
“He would win it,” Trevor retorted boldly, “and he would hold it. Pshaw, madam, I despise a milksop, and so do you!”
“You are overbold in your assertions, sir,” Betty said, stopping short and looking back over the heath, shading her eyes with her fan.