“Merciful powers! Susanna and that—that young impostor!”
Alaric’s eyeglass fell with a click, and the diabolical left eye twirled and twisted fiendishly in its socket as its retina embraced the picture indicated.
“Feign not to have observed.... Well, Susanna! How are you, Halcyon. We are strolling towards the ballroom for a glimpse of Wopse’s work.”
“We are stro——” Lord Beaumaris choked and purpled. Alaric dragged him on.
“Do you think?...” Susanna’s cheeks were white roses now. “Do you think—they——”
“Saw me kiss you? Not a doubt of it!”
“Oh!” Susanna confronted him with blazing eyes. “You!—you did it on purpose! It was a plot——”
She clenched her strong young hands, battling with the desire to buffet the handsome bronzed face before her. “I’ll never—never speak to you again!” she cried.
“You will not be allowed to,” groaned the poor painter. “Our walks and rides and all the rest are over.... Yes, there has been a plot, but not of the kind you suspect. I am a traitor—but not the kind of traitor you think me. Lady Lymston, I am not the Duke of Halcyon. I am a poor devil—I beg your pardon!—I am a painter; my name is Wopse, and I have disgraced my profession by the part I have played!” He sat down miserably on a rustic bench.
“Oh! It has been a put-up thing between you all!” Susanna gasped. “Oh!” She towered over Wopse like an incensed young goddess.