“If I become convinced he is putting young Alfred up to any such rascality as you imagine, I’ll break the scoundrel’s neck for him!” growled Coverdale, in a tone like the rumbling of distant thunder. As he spoke some one touched him on the shoulder, and looking round, he was more surprised than pleased to see the object of his kind intentions standing behind the chair on which he was seated. How long he might have been there, or how much of their conversation he might have heard, it was impossible to tell; but so convinced was Coverdale that D’Almayne had been playing the eavesdropper, that he was on the point of inquiring what amount of information he had thus acquired, and especially whether he had clearly understood the fate that awaited him, if he were really inciting “little Alfred” to make love to his wife, when D’Almayne, who possessed a womanly predilection for always having the first and last word, began-- “Pardon me if I interrupt what appears a most interesting conversation, but I have been hunting all over the gardens for the last half-hour to find you. Mr. Crane imagines you have eloped with his phaeton and horses, and Mrs. Coverdale is so completely _au désespoir_ at the loss of her husband, that even Lord Alfred Courtland’s attentions are powerless to console her;--really, Miss Crofton, it is too cruel of you to seduce Benedick from his allegiance to his Beatrice--you might be content with enslaving us poor bachelors!” This speech was not particularly palatable to Arabella, and she would probably have passed it over in contemptuous silence had she not glanced at Coverdale; but, perceiving by his flashing eye and quivering lip that he was so angry that he literally dared not trust himself to reply, she hastened to prevent anything unpleasant occurring between them, by observing in her usual calm, slightly sarcastic manner-- “It is like Mr. D’Almayne’s policy to screen himself by throwing the blame on the injured party. We have been roaming up and down like restless ghosts, hunting for Mrs. Crane and Mrs. Coverdale for the last half-hour--ever since we arrived, in fact, until I grew so tired, that out of compassion Mr. Coverdale allowed me to sit down and rest.” “One word, Mr. D’Almayne,” interrupted Harry, regardless of an imploring look and gentle pressure of the arm from Arabella Crofton, “you made a joke (for I suppose you do not wish me to consider you spoke seriously) about my wife a minute ago; now I’m a quick-tempered fellow--touchy you may call it, upon some points, and this happens to be one of them; so to prevent anything disagreeable, I tell you frankly _I don’t like such jokes_--you understand?”