His grace advanced to the window, swept off his broad plumed hat, and bowed until the golden curls of his periwig almost met across his face.
Within the chair, still very pale, but quite composed again by now, sat Miss Farquharson, regarding his grace with a very odd expression, an expression best described as speculative.
“Child,” he exclaimed, a hand upon his heart, a startled look on his handsome face, “I vow that you have taught me the meaning of fear. For I was never frightened in my life until to-day. What imprudence, my dear Sylvia, to show yourself here in the City, when men’s minds are so distempered by war and pestilence that they must be seeking scapegoats wherever they can find them. None may call me devout, yet devout I feel at this moment. From my soul I return thanks to Heaven that by a miracle I chanced to be here to save you from this peril!”
She leaned forward, and her hooded cloak of light silk, having fallen back from head and shoulders, revealed the white lustre of her beauty. She was smiling slightly, a smile that curled her delicate lip and lent something hard and disdainful to eyes that naturally were soft and gentle—long-shaped, rather wistful eyes of a deep colour that was something between blue and green.
“It was a most fortunate chance, your grace,” she said, almost tonelessly.
“Fortunate, indeed!” he fervently agreed with her, and, hat in hand, dabbed his brow with a fine handkerchief.
“Your grace was very opportunely at hand!”
And now there was a world of mocking meaning in her tone. She understood at last, she thought, upon whose behalf that fanatic had spied upon her going forth, afterwards to follow and assail her, thus providing occasion for this very romantic rescue. Having thus shrewdly appraised the situation, the actress in her awoke to play her part in it.
And so she had mocked him with that phrase: “Your grace was very opportunely at hand!”
“I thank God for’t, and so may you, child,” was the quick answer, ignoring the mockery, which had not escaped him.