"Oriana, tell him," Tom cried humbly. He was deceived. His eyes were shining with honest pride.
Coke caught at the name. "Oriana!" he repeated, bowing still lower. "Mistress Oriana----"
"Clark," she said drily. And then, "You are not much wiser now."
"My loss, ma'am," Sir Hervey answered politely. "One of Sir Robert Clark of Snailwell's charming daughters, perhaps? Until now I had only the pleasure of knowing the elder, but----"
"You know no more now," she retorted, with an air of low breeding that must have opened any eyes but a lover's. "I don't know your Sir Robert."
"Indeed!" Sir Hervey said. "One of the Leicestershire Clarks, of Lawnd Abbey, perhaps?"
"No," madam answered sullenly, hating him more and more, yet not daring to show it. How she cursed her booby for his indiscretion!
"Surely not a daughter of my old friend, Dean Clark of Salisbury? You don't say so?"
She bit her lip with mortification. "No," she said, "I don't say so. I ain't that either."
Tom intervened hurriedly. "You are under a misapprehension, Sir Hervey," he said. "Clark was Oriana's--her husband's name. Captain Clark, of Sabine's Foot. He did not treat her well," poor Tom continued, leaning forward, his hands resting on the table--they were all in the room now. "But I hope to make the rest of her life more happy than the early part."