“Just that.  Ah, how I know her, Richard!  She can be reckless beyond notion.  And if it were proved to her that you were in love with Miss Swain, the barrister’s daughter, over whom we were said to have fought, she would as soon marry Chartersea, or March, or the devil, to show you how little she cared.”

“With Patty Swain!” I exclaimed.

“But if she knew you did not care a rope’s end for Patty, Mr. Marmaduke and his reputation might go into exile together,” he continued, without heeding.  “So much for a woman’s pride, I say.  The day the news of your disappearance arrived, Richard, she was starting out with a party to visit Lord Carlisle’s seat, Castle Howard.  Not a step would she stir, though Mr. Marmaduke whined and coaxed and threatened.  And I swear to you she has never been the same since, though few but I know why.  I might tell you more, my lad, were it not a breach of confidence.”

“Then don’t,” I said; for I would not let my feelings run.

“Egad, then, I will!” he cried impetuously, “for the end justifies it.  You must know that after the letter came from Mr. Lloyd, we thought you dead.  I could never get her to speak of you until a fortnight ago.  We both had gone with a party to see Wanstead and dine at the Spread Eagle upon the Forest, and I stole her away from the company and led her out under the trees.  My God, Richard, how beautiful she was in the wood with the red in her cheeks and the wind blowing her black hair!  For the second time I begged her to be Lady Comyn.  Fool that I was, I thought she wavered, and my heart beat as it never will again.  Then, as she turned away, from her hand slipped a little gold-bound purse, and as I picked it up a clipping from a newspaper fluttered out.  ’Pon my soul, it was that very scandalous squib of the Maryland Gazette about our duel!  I handed it back with a bow.  I dared not look up at her face, but stood with my eyes on the ground, waiting.

“‘Lord Comyn,’ says she, presently, with a quiver in her voice, ’before I give you a reply you must first answer, on your word as a gentleman, what I ask you.’

“I bowed again.

“‘Is it true that Richard Carvel was in love with Miss Swain?’ she asked.”

“And you said, Comyn,” I broke in, unable longer to contain myself, “you said—­”

“I said:  ’Dorothy, if I were to die to-morrow, I would swear Richard Carvel loved you, and you only.’”

His Lordship had spoken with that lightness which hides only the deepest emotion.

“And she refused you?” I cried.  “Oh, surely not for that!”

“And she did well,” said my Lord.

I bowed my head on my arms, for I had gone through a great deal that day, and this final example of Comyn’s generosity overwhelmed me.  Then I felt his hand laid kindly on my shoulder, and I rose up and seized it.  His eyes were dim, as were mine.

“And now, will you go to Maryland and be a fool?” asked his Lordship.