Her ladyship stared. “Mock-marriage?” she echoed. “Marriage? La!” And again she vented her unpleasant laugh. “Did she insist on that, the prude? Y' amaze me!”
“Surely, my love, you do not apprehend. Had Lord Rotherby's parson not been detected and unmasked by Mr. Caryll, here—”
“Would you ha' me believe she did not know the fellow was no parson?”
“Oh!” cried Hortensia. “Your ladyship has a very wicked soul. May God forgive you!”
“And who is to forgive you?” snapped the countess.
“I need no forgiveness, for I have done no wrong. A folly, I confess to. I was mad to have heeded such a villain.”
Her ladyship gathered forces for a fresh assault. But Mr. Caryll anticipated it. It was no doubt a great impertinence in him; but he saw Hortensia's urgent need, and he felt, moreover, that not even Lord Ostermore would resent his crossing swords a moment with her ladyship.
“You would do well, ma'am, to remember,” said he, in his singularly precise voice, “that Lord Rotherby even now—and as things have fallen out—is by no means quit of all danger.”
She looked at this smooth gentleman, and his words burned themselves into her brain. She quivered with mingling fear and anger.
“Wha'—what is't ye mean?” quoth she.