Cicely uttered an exclamation of horror.
"Oh, don't say such a thing, Maryllia! It's too dreadful! You are the prettiest, sweetest creature I ever saw, and I wouldn't have a scar or a blemish on your dear face for a million Roxmouths! Have patience! We'll get rid of him!"
Maryllia gave a hopeless gesture.
"How?"
"Well, I don't quite know!" and Cicely knitted her black brows perplexedly--"But don't worry, Maryllia! I believe it will all come right. Something will happen to make short work of him,--I'm sure of it!"
"You are an optimist,"--said Maryllia, kissing her--"and you're very young! I have learned that in this best of all possible worlds, human nature is often the worst part of all creation, and that when you want to avoid a particularly objectionable human being, that being is always round the corner. However, if I cannot get rid of Roxmouth, I shall do something desperate! I shall disappear!"
"Where to?" asked Cicely, startled.
"I don't know. Nowhere that you cannot find me!"
She laughed,--she had recovered her natural buoyancy and light- heartedness, and when she joined her party at dinner that evening, she showed no traces of annoyance or fatigue. She made no allusion to Lord Roxmouth's appearance at Sir Morton Pippitt's, and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, glancing at her somewhat timorously, judged it best to avoid the subject. For she knew she had played a mean trick on the friend whose guest she was,--she knew she had in her pocket a private letter from Mrs. Fred Vancourt, telling her of Lord Roxmouth's arrival at Badsworth Hall, and urging her to persuade Maryllia to go there, and to bring about meetings between the two as frequently as possible,--and as she now and then met the straight flash of her hostess's honest blue eyes, she felt the hot colour rising to her face underneath all her rouge, and for once in her placid daily life of body-massage and self-admiration, she felt discomposed and embarrassed. The men talked the incident of the day over among themselves when they were left to their coffee and cigars, and discussed the probabilities and non-probabilities of Miss Vancourt becoming the Duchess of Ormistoune, with considerable zest.
"She'll never have him--she hates him like poison!"--declared Lord Charlemont.
"Not surprised at that,"--said another man--"if she knows anything about him!"
"He has gone the pace!" murmured Mr. Bludlip Courtenay thoughtfully, dropping his monocle out of his eye and hastily putting it back, as though he feared his eye itself might escape from its socket unless thus fenced in--"But then, after all--wild oats! Once sown and reaped, they seldom spring again after marriage."