Lydia drew back from the smiling fierceness of her brows.
“I’m sorry--but I don’t think I understand. My husband has said nothing to me of--of yours.”
The great black crescents above Mrs. Linton’s eyes met angrily.
“Oh, look here, I didn’t mean that, you know--you mustn’t take one up so! Can’t you see how rattled I am?”
Lydia saw that, in fact, her beautiful mouth was quivering beneath softened eyes.
“I’m beside myself!” the splendid creature wailed, dropping into her seat.
“I’m so sorry,” Lydia repeated, forcing herself to speak kindly; “but how can I help you?”
“Trevenna--?” Lydia echoed in bewilderment.
Mrs. Linton clapped her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, Lord--there, it’s out! What a fool I am! But I supposed of course you knew; I supposed everybody knew.” She dried her eyes and bridled. “Didn’t you know that he’s Lord Trevenna? I’m Mrs. Cope.”
Lydia recognized the names. They had figured in a flamboyant elopement which had thrilled fashionable London some six months earlier.
“Now you see how it is--you understand, don’t you?” Mrs. Cope continued on a note of appeal. “I knew you would--that’s the reason I came to you. I suppose _he_ felt the same thing about your husband; he’s not spoken to another soul in the place.” Her face grew anxious again. “He’s awfully sensitive, generally--he feels our position, he says--as if it wasn’t _my_ place to feel that! But when he does get talking there’s no knowing what he’ll say. I know he’s been brooding over something lately, and I _must_ find out what it is--it’s to his interest that I should. I always tell him that I think only of his interest; if he’d only trust me! But he’s been so odd lately--I can’t think what he’s plotting. You will help me, dear?”
Lydia, who had remained standing, looked away uncomfortably.
“If you mean by finding out what Lord Trevenna has told my husband, I’m afraid it’s impossible.”
“Because I infer that it was told in confidence.”
“Well, what of that? Your husband looks such a dear--any one can see he’s awfully gone on you. What’s to prevent your getting it out of him?”
“A spy--a spy? How dare you?” Mrs. Cope flamed out. “Oh, I don’t mean that either! Don’t be angry with me--I’m so miserable.” She essayed a softer note. “Do you call that spying--for one woman to help out another? I do need help so dreadfully! I’m at my wits’ end with Trevenna, I am indeed. He’s such a boy--a mere baby, you know; he’s only two-and-twenty.” She dropped her orbed lids. “He’s younger than me--only fancy! a few months younger. I tell him he ought to listen to me as if I was his mother; oughtn’t he now? But he won’t, he won’t! All his people are at him, you see--oh, I know _their_ little game! Trying to get him away from me before I can get my divorce--that’s what they’re up to. At first he wouldn’t listen to them; he used to toss their letters over to me to read; but now he reads them himself, and answers ‘em too, I fancy; he’s always shut up in his room, writing. If I only knew what his plan is I could stop him fast enough--he’s such a simpleton. But he’s dreadfully deep too--at times I can’t make him out. But I know he’s told your husband everything--I knew that last night the minute I laid eyes on him. And I _must_ find out--you must help me--I’ve got no one else to turn to!”
