“My father?” mocked the mermaid, running her white hand through her curls. But Pomona neither understood nor practiced the wiles of women.
“I meant my Lord Blantyre,” said she.
“Oh, the lord earl, your patient; nay, it goes better with him. Oh, he has been sadly, sadly. We have had a sore and anxious time; such a wound as his, neglected——” she shook her ringlets.
Pomona’s lip suddenly trembled, she caught it between her teeth to steady it.
“Ah,” said Julia, interrupting herself and turning on her chair, “here comes the Lady Alethea.”
Alethea entered, mincing on high-heeled shoes, her cherry lips pursed, her dark eyes dancing, as if a pair of mischievous sprites had taken lodging there. She gazed at Pomona, so large, so work-stained, so incongruous a figure in the bright, luxurious room. Her nostrils dilated. She looked as wicked as a kid.
“My brother,” said she, addressing her friend, though she kept staring at Pomona, “has heard of this wench’s arrival. He would speak with her.”
“I will go with you, even now,” said Pomona.
Both the ladies shrieked; so did the maid who had followed Lady Alethea into the room.
“My good creature! In that attire?”