“There, there, my dear! We cannot mend matters now.” And for some minutes he heard and questioned Lady Jane with some shew of decency, but evidently with an effort, for it was not long before he broke out again: “How much simpler it would all be if you did not interfere, madam!”
This angered her beyond control, and she replied: “Your Grace may have no feeling for the sorrow that breaks the hearts of others, but this is only a case for common justice.”
“You, you, you have a keen sense of justice, madam,” he stammered, much nettled. “You are not wanting in courage, either; 'tis a pity you could not have turned your talents to some account.”
Poor Margaret, seeing the turn things were taking, now advanced, and throwing herself at his feet, poured forth her heart to him in entreaties with the tears running down her lovely face. At first he seemed much moved, and shifted himself in his chair most uncomfortably, fairly squirming like a worm on a pin; but, to my disappointment, I soon saw he was coming back to his usual humour, even as she was entreating—“Oh, your Grace, your Grace, he is all I have left in the world! I have been a motherless girl since I can remember; I have been away from my father, at school for years; and my brother whom I played with, the one person whom I have prayed for more than all others, is now in danger of his life”—and she ended in a burst of sobs.
For answer he merely yawned, and said, turning to me, “What did you say your name was—eh?”
“Geraldine, your Grace.”
“Oh! No particular family, I suppose?”
“No, your Grace, of no family in particular,” I answered.
“He! he! he!” cackled his Grace. “Oh, I can see farther than I get credit for! You, you, you'll remedy that some day—eh? Miss—Miss— What did you say your name was?”