“My place is here,” Hortensia explained. “Unless Mr. Caryll should, himself, desire me to depart.”
“Nay, nay,” he cried, and smiled upon her fondly—so fondly that the countess's eyes grew wider. “With all my heart, I desire you to remain. It is most fitting you should hear that which I have to say.”
“What does it mean?” demanded Rotherby, thrusting himself forward, and scowling from one to the other of them. “What d'ye mean, Hortensia?”
“I am Mr. Caryll's betrothed wife,” she answered quietly.
Rotherby's mouth fell open, but he made no sound. Not so her ladyship. A peal of shrill laughter broke from her. “La! What did I tell you, Charles?” Then to Hortensia: “I'm sorry for you, ma'am,” said she. “I think ye've been a thought too long in making up your mind.” And she laughed again.
“Lord Ostermore lies above stairs,” Hortensia reminded her, and her ladyship went white at the reminder, the indecency of her laughter borne in upon her.
“Would ye lesson me, girl?” she cried, as much to cover her confusion as to vent her anger at the cause of it. “Ye've an odd daring, by God! Ye'll be well matched with his impudence, there.”
Rotherby, singularly self-contained, recalled her to the occasion.
“Mr. Caryll is waiting,” said he, a sneer in his voice.
“Ah, yes,” she said, and flashing a last malignant glance upon Hortensia, she sank to a chair beside her, but not too near her.