“Leave the saint out of it, my lord, when you put the sinner in,” said Lady Betty.
“Oh, Saint Mary, there goes my last crown!” came from the other room in the shrill lament of Lady Dacres.
Both Savile and Trevor laughed.
“Change the sex of your saint and you have an honorable example,” remarked Trevor, as he picked up the countess’ guitar and began to finger it lightly.
“I’m a ruined man,” said Savile recklessly, “unless that fickle dame—Fortune—smiles on me to-morrow.”
“You ought to call her a fickle mare, my lord,” suggested Lady Betty artlessly; “when Fortune runs upon four legs it must needs be more fleet than upon two.”
Lord Savile looked into her eyes with a smile.
“If love were kind, fortune might fly, my lady,” he said daringly, but very low.
Lady Clancarty flushed hotly as she turned to greet a newcomer, Sir Edward Mackie, one of Devonshire’s gentlemen; a young fellow with a round, boyish face, who had worn his heart upon his sleeve until he lost it to Lady Betty. But so ingenuous was he, so frankly generous and devoted, that she gave him now her sweetest smile.
Meanwhile, Mr. Trevor still tuned the guitar, but he had heard Savile’s whisper to my lady and had watched her face with keen and searching eyes. Young Mackie brought news for Lady Clancarty.