“Miss Meredith,” cried a woman’s voice. “What does that puss want with you, Sir William?”
The bass of a masculine reply came to the visitor’s ears, though pitched too low for her to distinguish words.
“I know better than to take any man’s oath concerning that,” retorted the feminine speaker; and on the last word the door was flung wider open, and a woman of full figure and of very pronounced beauty burst into the room where the girl sat, closely followed, if not in fact pursued, by the British commander-in-chief. “What do you want with Sir William?” she demanded.
Janice had risen, half in fright and half in courtesy; but the cry she uttered, even as the inquiry was put, was significant of something more than either.
“Well,” went on the questioner, “art struck with a syncope that thou dost nothing but gape and stare at me?”
“I beg your pardon,” faltered the girl. “I recognised— that is—I mean, ’t was thy painting that—”
“Malapert!” shrieked the woman. “How dare you say I paint! Dost have the vanity to think thou ’rt the only one with a red and white skin?”
“Oh, indeed, madam,” gasped Janice, “I alluded not to thy painting and powdering, but to the miniature that—”
“Sir William,” screamed the dame, too furious even to heed the attempted explanation, “how can you stand there and hear this hussy thus insult me?”
“Then in Heaven’s name get back to the room from which you should ne’er have come,” muttered Howe, crossly.