"I'm thoroughly tired of Lord Lynborough," said the Marchesa icily.
"He must have known I was staying with you, I think; but he never so much as mentioned you. He just ignored you--the whole thing, I mean. Wasn't it tactful?"
Tactful it might have been; it did not appear to gratify the Marchesa.
"What a wonderful air there is about a--a _grand seigneio_!" pursued Violet reflectively. "Such a difference it makes!"
That remark did not gratify any of the gentlemen present; it implied a contrast, although it might not definitely assert one.
"It is such a pity that you've quarreled about that silly path!"
"Oh! oh! Miss Dufaure!"--"I say come, Miss Dufaure!"--"Er--really, Miss Dufaure!"--these three remonstrances may be distributed indifferently among the three men. They felt that there was a risk of treason in the camp.
The Marchesa assumed her grandest manner; it was medieval--it was Titianesque.
"Fortunately, as it seems, Violet, I do not rely on your help to maintain my fights in regard to the path. Pray meet Lord Lynborough as often as you please, but spare me any unnecessary mention of his name."
"I didn't mean any harm. It was all Nellie's fault."
The Marchesa's reply--if such it can be called--was delivered _sotto voce_, yet was distinctly audible. It was also brief. She said "_Nellie_!" Nellie was, of course, Miss Dufaure's dog.
Night fell upon an apparently peaceful land. Yet Violet was an absentee from the Marchesa's dressing-room that night, and even between Norah and her hostess the conversation showed a tendency to flag. Norah, for all her courage, dared not mention the name of Lynborough, and Helena most plainly would not. Yet what else was there to talk about? It had come to that point even so early in the war!
Meanwhile, up at Scarsmoor Castle, Lynborough, in exceedingly high spirits, talked to Leonard Stabb.
"Yes, Cromlech," he said, "a pretty girl, a very pretty girl if you like that _petite_ insinuating style. For myself I prefer something a shade more--what shall we call it?"
"A trifle more in the grand manner, perhaps, Cromlech. And she hadn't anything like the complexion. I knew at once that it couldn't be the Marchesa. Do you bathe to-morrow morning?"
"Just stand still, and let them throw themselves against you, Cromlech. Roger!--Oh, he's gone to bed; stupid thing to do--that! Cromlech, old chap, I'm enjoying myself immensely."