I have been away, or I had sooner answered your letter, which giveth me surprise as well as pain. You ask me to no longer attend you at your house, as Sir John speaketh of me with increased dislike and cannot bear even the mention of my name. I cannot understand that you should pay any attention to a silly prejudice unworthy of a man of sense. Sir John is at full liberty to tell me himself what he mislikes in my conduct, which never (as you can bear me witness) has been in any way offensive to him or wanting in the respect that I, in common with every Whig, have for his abilities. If any fancied affront irks him, he knows how to obtain satisfaction, and I trust that he will either take this course or meet me with the courtesy that I shall always be ready to offer him and that you will not suffer his whim to interrupt a friendship that I have the vanity to believe is not displeasing to you, and is the greatest of honors to your ladyship’s humble servant, THOMAS WHARTON. Lady Dalrymple folded the letter away slowly; she was not clever at reading between the lines, and fine phrasing a little confused her; but she caught the spirit of the writer; she saw that it only needed a word from her for Tom Wharton to challenge her husband on the first excuse that came. It was a curious thought; Tom Wharton had fought no duel in which he had not killed or (through good nature) disarmed his man; his perfect swordsmanship was a charm that kept men civil to him through all the offenses of his lax and lazy life, since a duel with him was death or the disgrace of mercy given; she knew her husband’s temper too well to think he would accept the last. She sat thinking quietly; she liked Tom Wharton; he was good-natured, pleasant-mannered, open-hearted, open-handed, he treated her with a flattering deference; though they had never exchanged confidences, she felt he understood a little of her position; Harry had liked him. She read his letter through again; her heart swelled at the thought that she was forbidden the only pleasant company of which she knew; she struggled for a moment with rebellion and wild thoughts of swords behind Montague House, of freedom and release—then she sat down to the Viscount’s desk and wrote to Tom Wharton a gentle letter in which she desired to be left to obey Sir John’s wishes, however unreasonable they might seem. She sealed it slowly and with a sigh. CHAPTER XIX THE PACT Delia heard the door closed behind her and lifted her eyes. It was a beautiful room, all carving and gilt with heavy hangings of stamped leather and embroidered satin; the chimneypiece was of massive white marble, carved with fauns and grapes, above it a vast mirror reached to the ceiling; resting against the chimneypiece stood the Master of Stair.