"Suspect no longer," I answered, with sharper emphasis than I should have
used.
"Do you know her?" she asked.
"I do not know a 'wretched hussy' who is the daughter of the innkeeper,"
I answered sullenly. "I know a beautiful girl who watched devotedly at
your brother's bedside, day and night, and probably saved his life at a
time when he was deserted by his sisters and his mother."
"We often find that sort of kindness in those low creatures," she
answered, unaware of the tender spot she was touching, and ignoring
my reference to George's sisters and his mother.
Naturally Mary was kind of heart, but her mother was a hard, painted
old Jezebel, whose teachings would have led her daughter away from every
gentle truth and up to all that was hard, cruel, and selfish in life. A
woman in the higher walks of life is liable to become enamelled before
her twentieth year.
While I did not blame Mary for what she had said relating to Bettina,
still I was angry and longed to do battle with any one who could fight.
After we had been together perhaps ten minutes, some one claimed her for
a dance, and she left me, saying hurriedly in my ear:--
"I'll see you soon again. I want to ask you further about George." She
had not a question to ask about me.
She was not to see me again, for I asked permission of the queen to
withdraw, and immediately left the ball.
While I was crossing the park on my way back to Whitehall, the wind
moaned and groaned--it did not breathe.
Pages:
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286