He saw Lady O'Moy's face turn
whiter and whiter, saw her sapphire eyes dilating as they regarded
him.
"Richard Butler!" she echoed. "What of Richard Butler? Tell me.
Tell me at once."
Hesitating before such signs of distress, Samoval looked at O'Moy,
to meet a dejected scowl.
Lady O'Moy turned to her husband. "What is it?" she demanded.
"You know something about Dick and you are keeping it from me.
Dick is in trouble?"
"He is," O'Moy admitted. "In great trouble."
"What has he done? You spoke of an affair at Evora or Tavora, which
is not to be mentioned before ladies. I demand to know." Her
affection and anxiety for her brother invested her for a moment with
a certain dignity, lent her a force that was but rarely displayed by
her.
Seeing the men stricken speechless, Samoval from bewildered
astonishment, O'Moy from distress, she jumped to the conclusion,
after what had been said, that motives of modesty accounted for
their silence.
"Leave us, Sylvia, please," she said. "Forgive me, dear. But you
see they will not mention these things while you are present." She
made a piteous little figure as she stood trembling there, her
fingers tearing in agitation at one of Samoval's roses.
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