Beatrice turned her head a little, but made no answer; and there was not the shadow of wincing on her steady face.
“As he had with Master More,” said Lady Torridon a little louder.
“We must remember that he has my Lord Cromwell to help him,” observed Beatrice tranquilly.
Lady Torridon looked at her again. Even now she could scarcely believe that this stranger could treat her with such a supreme indifference. And there was a further sting, too, in the girl’s answer, for all there understood the reference to Ralph; and yet again it was impossible to take offence.
Margaret looked at her father, half-frightened, and saw again a look of anxiety in his eyes; he was crumbling his bread nervously as he answered Beatrice.
“My Lord Cromwell—” he began.
“My Lord Cromwell has my son Ralph under him,” interrupted his wife. “Perhaps you did not know that, Mistress Atherton.”
Margaret again looked quickly up; but there was still no sign of wincing on those scarlet lips, or beneath the black eyebrows.
“Why, of course, I knew it,” said Beatrice, looking straight at her with large, innocent eyes, “that was why—”
She stopped; and Lady Torridon really roused now, made a false step.