“Ah,” said Lady Betty, with a roguish smile, “therein lies the sting!”
“Precisely,” admitted the Irishman; “if there’s one thing that could bring me back to this vale of tears it is my successor!”
“I have heard that in India the widows are burnt on the funeral pyres,” she remarked, a glow of amusement in her eyes; “you might arrange it so for the future Mrs. Trevor.”
He shook his head disconsolate. “She’s sure to be a woman of spirit,” he said; “I couldn’t get her consent.”
Betty shrugged her shoulders. “After all you have said of love you can’t find a woman to die for it?”
“I would rather she lived for it,” he said, with his daring smile, “and for me!”
“Men are purely selfish,” she retorted with fine indifference, “it’s always ‘for me’; hadn’t you better dream of living for her?”
“I do!” he replied promptly; “faith, if I didn’t dream of her I should immediately expire—she’s the star of my life.”
“Oh!” said Lady Betty, in a strange voice, “it has gone as far as that?—she is French, I suppose?” she added with polite interest and elevated brows.
“I never inquire into the nationality of divinities,” he said coolly; “she’s an angel, and that’s enough for her humble adorer.”