“You Papists are fond of saints,” remarked my lady, tapping the floor with her foot.
“And sinners,” he admitted.
Betty turned her shoulder toward him.
“What color are her eyes?” she asked, playing with her fan.
“I can’t look into them at this moment,” he replied with audacity, “but I hope to tell you later.”
She flashed a withering glance at him.
“They are brown,” he announced coolly.
Anger and amusement struggled for a moment on Lady Betty’s face, and then she laughed and dropped her fan.
He stooped to pick it up and something green and shrivelled fell before her. Lady Betty put her foot on it. He handed her the fan with a bow. The voices in the other room rose a little in a dispute.
“What are they saying?” she asked, swaying her fan before her face.