On an easel
stood a masterly small portrait of Lord Dunstable as a young man, by
Bastien Lepage; and not far from it--rather pushed into a corner--a
sketch by Millais of a fair-haired boy, leaning against a pony.
By this time Doris was quivering both with excitement and fatigue. She
sank into a chair, and turned eagerly to the wine and biscuits with
which Miss Field pursued her. While she ate and drank, Lady Dunstable
sat in a high chair observing her, one long and pointed foot crossed
over the other, her black eyes alive with satiric interrogation, to
which, however, she gave no words.
The wine was reviving. Doris found her voice. As the door closed on Miss
Field, she bent forward:--
"Lady Dunstable, I didn't come here on my own account, and had there
been time of course I should have given you notice. I came entirely on
your account, because something was happening to you--and Lord
Dunstable--which you didn't know, and which made me--very sorry for
you!"
Lady Dunstable started slightly.
"Happening to me?--and Lord Dunstable?"
"I have been seeing your son, Lady Dunstable.
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