Lord Clancarty came into the room with a springing step, his face flushed and his eyes shining; he wore, indeed, the air of a conquering hero. But, almost at the threshold, he halted and stood gazing at Betty in amazement. She was still standing before the fire, slowly wielding the fan, her face averted, pale, cold, her chin up. Nothing could have been more frozen than her attitude; it chilled even his ardor, and he stood, with his hat in his hand, and for a few moments there was silence. Then Lady Betty broke it.
“I received your note, my lord,” she said, in an icy tone.
“The devil you did, madam,” he said, “I should think that I had sent you a cartel—from your manner of receiving me! Faith, my lady, you seem marvellous glad to see your husband.”
A shadow of a smile flickered in Betty’s eyes.
“A welcome kept too long grows cold, sir,” she replied.
He took a step toward her, tossing his hat upon the table, and something in his face made her back closer to the fire; he saw it and stopped, smiling.
“You do not believe in me,” he said reproachfully; “I would have wooed you and won you, dear, but for the cruelty of fate. I am your husband,” he added softly; “does not that plead a little?”
“A childish contract, a mere formal mockery,” replied Lady Betty, cool as ice, looking at him across the candles, “I should not dream of being bound by it—no generous man would base any claim upon it, sir;” she told this falsehood glibly, though her very soul shook under his glance.
The blood rushed up to his forehead.
“Have I based any claim upon it, madam?” he asked proudly.