“But that Lucy is so very young a child, I should reprove you seriously, sir,” said the earl. “You have no right to bring Lucy’s name into any such absurdity.”
“I mean it, papa; you’ll all see. And I intend to keep out of scrapes—that is, of nasty, dishonorable scrapes—on purpose that Mr. Carlyle shall find no excuse against me. I have made up my mind to be what he is—a man of honor. I am right glad you know about it, sir, and I shall let mamma know it before long.”
The last sentence tickled the earl’s fancy, and a grim smile passed over his lips. “It will be war to the knife, if you do.”
“I know that,” laughed the viscount. “But I am getting a better match for mamma in our battles than I used to be.”
Nobody saw fit to prolong the discussion. Barbara put her veto upon the drive in the pony carriage unless John sat behind to look after the driver, which Lord Vane still resented as an insult. Madame Vine, when the corridor became empty again, laid her hand upon the boy’s arm as he was moving away, and drew him to the window.
“In speaking as you do of Lucy Carlyle, do you forget the disgrace reflected on her by the conduct of her mother?”
“Her mother is not Lucy.”
“It may prove an impediment, that, with Lord and Lady Mount Severn.”
“Not with his lordship. And I must do—as you heard me say—battle with my mother. Conciliatory battle, you understand, madame; bringing the enemy to reason.”
Madame Vine was agitated. She held her handkerchief to her mouth, and the boy noticed how her hands trembled.