He looked at her with amused astonishment.
"Give you up!—How?"
"Give up being my guardian! I really can't stand it. I—I don't mind what happens to myself. But it's too bad that I should be forced to—to make myself such a nuisance to you—or desert all my principles. It's not fair to me—that's what I feel—it's not indeed!" she insisted stormily.
He saw her dimly as she spoke—the beautiful oval of the face, the white brow, the general graciousness of line, so feminine, in truth!—so appealing. The darkness hid away all that shewed the "female franzy." Distress of mind—distress for his trumpery wound?—had shaken her, brought her back to youth and childishness? Again he felt a rush of sympathy—of tender concern.
"Do you think you would do any better with a guardian chosen by the
Court?" he asked her, smiling, after a moment's pause.
"Of course I should! I shouldn't mind fighting a stranger in the least."
"They would be very unlikely to appoint a stranger. They would probably name Lord Frederick."
"He wouldn't dream of taking it!" she said, startled. "And you know he is the laziest of men."
They both laughed. But her laugh was a sound of agitation, and in the close contact of the motor he was aware of her quick breathing.
"Well, it's true he never answers a letter," said Winnington. "But I suppose he's ill."