“You find me quite emotionnée,” she said, “parting from Mr. Spears. Yes, you may smile—but I was more like crying. I am sure he is a good man, though he may be—led astray.”
“He is not led astray,” said Fairfax; but then he remembered that it was not his business to plead any cause but his own. He looked at her wistfully, though there was always that under-gleam of humour in his eyes. “I have come up for sentence, Lady Markham,” he said.
She smiled. “The sentence will not be very severe; there is not much harm done.”
This was far worse than any severity could be. His countenance fell, sudden despondency filled his heart; and now the humour fled altogether from the mournful eyes with which he looked up into his judge’s face.
This time Lady Markham almost laughed. “You do not seem pleased to hear it,” she said. “I thought it might ease your mind.”
“Oh, Lady Markham do not jeer at me! You may think it does not matter, but to me——”
“It is sport to me, but death to you?” she said; “is that what you would say? No, Mr. Fairfax—no; not so bad as that. And you must pardon me if I am light-minded. I am happy. Paul is not going with those mad people; he is safe; he is free.”
“I am very glad,” said Fairfax, “but may I say that Paul is irrelevant just now? I have come up for my sentence. Is it to be banishment, or is it——? Ah, Lady Markham, tell me—is there any hope?”
“Mr. Fairfax,” she said, with great gravity, “you ask me for leave to get my Alice from me, if you can; and then you tell me you are nobody, of no family, with no connections. Pardon me; my only informant in yourself.”
“It is true—quite true.”