‘The woman is agitated,’ Mr. Courtenay said to himself. ‘What fools these women are! My stars!’ But he added, with grim politeness, ‘It is utterly out of the question, Lady Caryisfort. You are the girl’s countrywoman—even her countywoman. You are not one to incur the fatal reputation of match-making. Help me to break off this folly completely, and I will be grateful to you for ever. It must be done, whether you will help me or not.’
As he spoke, somehow or other she recovered her calm.
‘Are you so hard-hearted,’ she said,—‘so implacable a model of guardians? And I, innocent soul, who had supposed you romantic and Arcadian, wishing Kate to be loved for herself alone, and all the sentimental et ceteras. So it must be put a stop to, must it? Well, if there is nothing to be said for poor Antonio, I suppose, as it is my fault, I must help.’
‘There can be no doubt of it,’ said Mr. Courtenay.
Lady Caryisfort kept her eyes upon the two, and her lively brain began to work. The question interested her, there could be no doubt. She was shocked at herself, she said, that she had allowed things to go so far without finding it out. And then the two people of the world laid their heads together, and schemed the destruction of Kate’s fanciful little dream, and of poor Antonio’s hopes. Mr. Courtenay had no compunction; and though Lady Caryisfort smiled and made little appeals to him not to look so implacable, there was a certain gleam of excitement quite unusual to her about her demeanour also.
They had settled their plan before Kate had decided that, on the whole, it was best to thrust the dropped violets back into her belt, and not to give them to Antonio. It was nice to receive the flowers from him; but to give one back, to accept the look with which it was asked, to commit herself in his favour—that was a totally different question. Kate shrank into herself at the suit which was thus pressed a hair’s-breadth further than she was prepared for. It was just the balance of a straw whether she should have yielded or taken fright. And, happily for her, with those two pair of eyes upon her, it was the fright that won the day, and not the impulse to yield.
CHAPTER XLIX.
Kate had a good deal to think of when she went home that evening, and shut herself up in the room which was full of the sweetness of Antonio’s violets. Francesca, with an Italian’s natural terror of flower-scents, had carried them away; but Kate had paused on her way to her room to rescue the banished flowers.
‘They are enough to kill Mademoiselle in her bed, and leave us all miserable,’ said Francesca.
‘I am not a bit afraid of violets,’ said Kate.