“Take care, don’t go too far, Lucy!” exclaimed Lord Avondale, coloring with anger. “I do not claim to be a paragon of virtue, but you invited me to dishonor. You would make any man doubt the goodness of womankind.”
“It is false!” cried Lucy Osborn, while a dangerous anger flashed from her eyes. “A man who has made vows to as many women as you have, hesitating until invited to dishonor! Bah! Lenox, you weary me with your mock piety. That you should turn against me, after all my sacrifices and devotion, now that you have secured the promise of Ethel Horton to become your wife, proves you to be a contemptible toward, and destitute of chivalry or any sense of gratitude.”
“Come, come, my dear Lucy,” said Avondale, in a conciliatory tone, “you are a very clever woman; indeed you are, and have been quite invaluable to me. Do not be so hasty as to accuse me of ingratitude. I fancy you are trying to quarrel with me now for a purpose.”
“Indeed?” said Mrs. Osborn, haughtily. “Who commenced the quarrel, pray? And what object could I have in quarreling with you?” The carriage stopped before the Osborn home as she ceased speaking.
“I asked you this morning for an additional loan of a hundred pounds,” said Lord Avondale, “but as yet I have not received the favor.”
“And I am not at all sure that you will,” replied Lucy Osborn, disdainfully, as he handed her from the carriage. Lord Avondale, lifting his hat, bowed low, while Mrs. Osborn turned stiffly away and disappeared through the doorway of her home.
CHAPTER XXXI.—THE PASSING OF LORD AVONDALE
REACHING the privacy of her room, Mrs. Osborn threw herself into a chair and cried. She felt relieved afterward and thought how foolish it was of her to have quarreled with Lord Avondale. Unlocking a small drawer of her writing-desk, she fondly scrutinized, with an absorbing and passionate glance, a late photograph of the blasi Englishman.