“I entreat your ladyship to pardon me,” she resumed. “I have something serious to say. I am afraid—”
“I understand. You are afraid of crossing the Channel, and you don’t like to acknowledge it. Pooh! The passage barely lasts two hours; we will shut ourselves up in a private cabin. I will send at once—the courier may be engaged. Ring the bell.”
“Lady Janet, I must submit to my hard lot. I cannot hope to associate myself again with any future plans of yours—”
“What! you are afraid of our ‘Bohemian life’ in Paris? Observe this, Grace! If there is one thing I hate more than another, it is ‘an old head on young shoulders.’ I say no more. Ring the bell.”
“This cannot go on, Lady Janet! No words can say how unworthy I feel of your kindness, how ashamed I am—”
“Upon my honor, my dear, I agree with you. You ought to be ashamed, at your age, of making me get up to ring the bell.”
Her obstinacy was immovable; she attempted to rise from the couch. But one choice was left to Mercy. She anticipated Lady Janet, and rang the bell.
The man-servant came in. He had his little letter-tray in his hand, with a card on it, and a sheet of paper beside the card, which looked like an open letter.
“You know where my courier lives when he is in London?’ asked Lady Janet.
“Yes, my lady.”