"What are the terms?" Lady Betty asked. "Lord Pilgrimstone has not agreed to—"
"To permit me to communicate them?" he replied, with a grave smile.
"No. So you must pardon me, my dear, I have passed my word for
absolute secrecy. And, indeed, it is as important to me as to
Pilgrimstone that they should not be divulged."
"They are sure to leak out," she retorted. "They always do."
"Well, it will not be through me, I hope."
She stamped her foot on the carpet. "I should like to get them, and send them to the Times!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing—he was so provoking! "And let all the world know them! I should!"
He looked his astonishment, while the other two laughed softly, partly to avoid embarrassment, perhaps. My Lady often said these things, and no one took them seriously.
"You had better play the secretary for once, Lady Betty," said Atley, who was related to his chief. "You will then be able to satisfy your curiosity. Shall I resign pro tem?"
She looked eagerly at her husband for the third part of a second— looked for assent, perhaps. But she read no playfulness in his face, and her own fell. He was thinking about other things. "No," she said, almost sullenly, dropping her eyes to the carpet; "I should not spell well enough."
Soon after that they dispersed, this being Wednesday, Mr. Stafford's day for dining out. Everyone knows that Ministers dine only twice a week in session—on Wednesday and Sunday; and Sunday is often sacred to the children where there are any, lest they should grow up and not know their father by sight. Lady Betty came into the library at a quarter to eight, and found her husband still at his desk, a pile of papers before him waiting for his signature. As a fact, he had only just sat down, displacing his secretary, who had gone upstairs to dress.
"Stafford!" she said.