She paused for a moment, and then tossed back her pretty hair with a scornful hand.
"And you believed him! Anything for an excuse. He is no more ill than I am, Charles; rely upon that."
"But I am certain——"
"Don't go on," she interrupted, tapping her dainty black satin slipper on the carpet; a petulant movement to which Blanche was given, even as a child. "If you have come for the purpose of whitening my husband to me, as papa is always doing. I will not listen to you."
"You will not listen to any sort of reasoning whatever. I see that, my dear."
"Reasoning, indeed!" she retorted. "Say sophistry."
"Listen for an instant, Blanche; consider this one little item: I believe Lord Level to be ill, confined to his bed with low fever, as he tells me; you refuse to believe it; you say he is well. Now, considering that he expects us both to be at Marshdale to-morrow, can you not perceive how entirely, ridiculously void of purpose it would be for him to say he is seriously ill if he is not so?"
"I don't care," said my young lady. "He is deeper than any fox."
"Blanche, my opinion is, and you are aware of it, that you misjudge your husband. Upon one or two points I know you do. But I did not come here to discuss these unpleasant topics—you are in error there, you see. I came upon a widely different matter: to disclose something to you that will very greatly distress you, and I am grieved to be obliged to do it."
The words changed her mood. She looked half frightened.