“Oh, my lord, this is cruel hearing for us,” minced Julia.
She might have spoken to the wall for all the effect her smile and ogle produced on him. She turned her glass upon Pomona, and ran it up and down her till the poor girl felt herself so coarse, so common, so ugly, that she could have wished herself dead.
“Pray, Lord Majendie,” said Blantyre, “is Colonel Craven yet with you?”
Lady Alethea tossed her head, flushed and shot a look, half defiance, half fear, at her brother.
He propped himself up on his elbow, turned and surveyed her with a sneering smile.
“How pale and wasted art thou, my fair Alethea! Hast been nursing the wounded hero, and pining with his pangs? Or is’t, perchance, all fond fraternal anguish concerning my unworthy self? Oh, see you, I know what an uproar you made about me all over the countryside, what a hue and cry for the lost brother.”
“A plague on it, Julia,” said Lord Majendie, scratching his wig perplexedly and addressing his daughter in a loud whisper, “what ails the fellow? Does he wander, think you?”
But Lady Alethea seemed to find a meaning in the sick man’s words, for she tossed her head once more, and answered sharply:
“No, brother, I made no hue and cry for you, for ’tis not the first time it has been your pleasure to play truant and leave your loving friends all without news. How was I to know that you were more sorely hurt than Colonel Craven? He left you, he told us, standing by a tree, laughing at his pierced arm. You are not wont to come out of these affairs so ill.”
That they were of the same blood could not be doubted, for it was the very same sneer that sat on both their mouths.