“Oh, how can you ask?” she rejoined, in a sharp tone of reproach; “you know too well. In time to make me your wife when the divorce shall appear.”
“I shall chance it,” coolly observed Sir Francis.
“Chance it! chance the legitimacy of the child? You must assure that, before all things. More terrible to me than all the rest would it be, if—”
“Now don’t put yourself in a fever, Isabel. How many times am I to be compelled to beg that of you! It does no good. Is it my fault, if I am called suddenly to England?”
“Have you no pity for your child?” she urged in agitation. “Nothing can repair the injury, if you once suffer it to come upon him. He will be a by-word amidst men throughout his life.”
“You had better have written to the law lords to urge on the divorce,” he returned. “I cannot help the delay.”
“There has been no delay; quite the contrary. But it may be expected hourly now.”
“You are worrying yourself for nothing, Isabel. I shall be back in time.”
He quitted the room as he spoke, and Lady Isabel remained in it, the image of despair. Nearly an hour elapsed when she remembered the breakfast things, and rang for them to be removed. A maid-servant entered to do it, and she thought how ill miladi looked.
“Where is Pierre?” miladi asked.