Betty looked up and saw Sir Barton Henge. He had just been ushered into the hall, and wore a rich riding-suit and carried his plumed hat in his hand. He advanced with an air of eager pleasure, his bold eyes fixed on Mistress Carew.
“I crave your pardon, Lady Crabtree,” he said, with a graceful salutation, “for coming so early, but I knew the morning star shone ever at Wildrick Hall.”
“A very pretty compliment to an old woman, Sir Barton,” Lady Crabtree said. “You find us much upset; my young mistress here flies out at me because I will not coddle a valiant beggar.”
Betty closed her lips tightly and drew further away; her instinctive dislike for Henge increased every time she saw him, though his passionate admiration for her was plain enough to flatter the vanity of one so young.
“Mistress Carew has a tender heart,” said Henge, smiling blandly; “I can see that in her eyes.”
At this, old Madam burst out with a harsh laugh.
“Mercy on your imagination, sir,” she said in great amusement, “if you can fancy any tenderness in the glance that Mistress Betty casts at you! You are in no favor in that quarter.”
Betty blushed furiously, but held her peace. She was not entirely displeased at Lady Crabtree’s frankness, for Sir Barton had pushed his addresses with such violent warmth and haste that she dreaded his visits.
“You are gay this morning, madam,” he said sharply, with a glance of ill-disguised anger at the old woman; “happily, you are not the interpreter of Mistress Carew’s heart or eyes.”
“You fool,” retorted Lady Crabtree, laughing, “Betty’s eyes need no interpreter—”