She leans her head wearily down on her arm, and gives herself up to the sad, sweet pleasure of thinking of Philip Lockhart. Gradually a weary sleep steals over her, from which she is awakened by the entrance of her keeper.
"Asleep, dear? I'm sorry I awakened ye," she says, blandly. "Do you feel better of your little fit of temper?"
Lady Vera makes no answer to this kind query.
"Mr. Noble has gone up to London," pursues the maid, glibly. "He left his love and good-bye for you. You gave him quite an ugly cut, so you did, my pretty lady. Won't you let poor old Betsy Robson see the pretty little knife you did it with?" she continues, coaxingly.
Lady Vera lifts her eyes and regards her calmly.
"Betsy Robson, if that is your name," she said, "listen to me a moment. I have a dagger concealed on my person, and Leslie Noble has set you on to take it from me. I warn you that if you make the slightest attempt to do so, it will be at the peril of your life. It is my only weapon of defense against Leslie Noble, and I will never part with it while I am in that villain's power."
"Oh, fie, my lady, why should you be so set against your loving husband?" remonstrates Mrs. Robson.
Lady Vera regards her keenly.
"Are you acting a part, or do you really believe what that man tells you?" she asks, wonderingly. "I tell you Leslie Noble has no claim on me at all. He is a villain who has stolen me away from my home and friends to try to force me to be his wife. I am Lady Fairvale, of Fairvale Park, and if you will restore me to my liberty, Mrs. Robson, I will reward you generously."
The dark eyes, full of bitter tears now, are lifted pleadingly to the woman's stolid face, but the wild appeal only elicits some words under Betsy Robson's breath: