"No, ma'am, indeed it is not him."
"Then who is it?"
"Oh, ma'am—her Grace."
"The Duchess!" said Mrs. Verulam in slight surprise.
"Yes, ma'am; Mrs. Crouch says, indeed, that her Grace will do as her Ladyship—Lady Sage—does, when the week is over, ma'am. And it is all because of Mrs. Van Adam—taking her for a man, ma'am. Oh, do—please, please do tell them, ma'am!"
"The teeth of the comb! Be careful, Marriner, please!"
"Yes, ma'am, I will. But I do implore you, ma'am, if I might——"
"Hush!" cried Mrs. Verulam suddenly; "let me think! Brush softly, Marriner, if you have any regard for me."
Marriner brushed softly, and Mrs. Verulam thought for a long while, hating Lady Sage and the Duchess for themselves, womanlike, yet half-inclined—or tricking herself to think so—to love their coming deed. James Bush, too, and the squirrel Tommy, and the cage door, and the different, the true, earnest, sincere, unaffected life—thoughts of all these ran through that pretty head beneath the shining hair, until the weary brusher ceased, and Mrs. Verulam said, "You may go to bed, Marriner; good night."
In consequence of Marriner's revelation, when, on the following morning, shortly before the Ribton Marches party started for the course, Mr. Rodney mysteriously begged to be allowed to speak with Mrs. Verulam alone, she was not much surprised by what he had to say, although, for some perhaps feminine reason, she pretended to be so.