"Nay, but I would give my new wig to have been in
that upper chamber at Pontoise. Dear Geoffrey on his defence booming
noble periods--and the Prince, poor gentleman, with his fingers in his
ears! If dear Geoffrey was telling the truth. I wonder."
"Oh, is that what you'll pretend?"
"Pretend? I pretend nothing, ma'am. Why, to be sure, our Geoffrey always
means to tell the truth--having, God bless him, no imagination. But
you'll remark what when he tells a tale, it's Mr. Waverton has always the
_beau role_. He sees the world like that, dear lad. So I should be glad
to hear the Caledonian gentleman's notion of what happened."
"I see. You'll make that your defence. Geoffrey imagined it all."
"Egad, ma'am, you may lower your tone. I have nothing to defend, nor are
you set in judgment."
Alison started up. "Do you suppose all this is to make no change?"
she cried.
"You're a splendid creature, by heaven," says Harry, tilting his chair
back and watching her with a little epicurean smile, the proud vigour of
her, the blood in her cheeks, the flash of her eyes, and the sweep of the
white arm.
"I could hate you for that," she said, and her lips set.
"Yes. I think you're in a fair way to it," says Harry. "I wonder if you
know why."
"Because I have come to despise you," she cried sharply.
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