Her overstrained nerves showed in a gusty little fit of passion, which brought a wider smile to Jack Denningham's mocking lips.
"Loyal and royal," he murmured. "And you are Morry's sister!"
The last words beneath his breath had bitter sting in them.
"Yes," she replied hotly, "I am Morry's sister,--sister to the Marquis de Varenac, I would have you remember, and mistress here in his absence."
A low bow was her answer, but Lord Denningham's eyes were malicious.
"I congratulate you, with all my heart," he said softly, "on your new mistress-ship." And he smiled as he glanced towards Michael Berrington.
The latter was standing erect, and his eyes were ready to flash their reply and challenge.
But Gabrielle interrupted--she had not caught the drift of his subtle insult.
"Ere the day is over Morry will be here himself," she cried. "I think you will find the room cramped at the Manor of Varenac when he returns."
The smile broadened on the sneering features.
"I am prepared to remain _till then_," retorted my lord suavely. "I do not think I need look for another lodging at present."
"Your lace is soiled, Monsieur," he observed, with meaning in his tones, whilst, stretching out his hand, he touched the ruffle of Mechlin lace which fell back from Lord Denningham's wrist.
The owner of the ruffle looked down with a careless laugh.
The whole of the under-portion of the lace was stiff with blood.
Lord Denningham forced another laugh, not quite so careless and mocking as the first.
"A mere scratch," he replied, with would-be lightness--"nothing of any consequence."
But impulse had already brought Gabrielle to his side.
"If you are hurt," she said, very gravely, "you shall let me bind it for you. I--I have some slight skill in such work. Nurse Bond taught me."
She made as though to touch the wounded wrist, but he drew it back sharply.
"Tush! a scratch!" he growled. "Half healed already. I want no bandages."
Count Jéhan was yawning, as he helped himself to snuff.
"An excellent flavour," he murmured, half to himself. "Bought from a friend who has traded much in the East. Permit me, Monsieur."
He offered the dainty little box with a graceful bow.
Lord Denningham stretched out a ready hand. In doing so the lace ruffle fell back, disclosing an arm too white for manhood, though muscular and hardened by sword-play. Count Jéhan looked from arm to owner.