Cope continued on
a note of appeal. "I knew you would--that's the reason I came to you. I
suppose _he_ felt the same thing about your husband; he's not spoken to
another soul in the place." Her face grew anxious again. "He's awfully
sensitive, generally--he feels our position, he says--as if it wasn't _my_
place to feel that! But when he does get talking there's no knowing what
he'll say. I know he's been brooding over something lately, and I _must_
find out what it is--it's to his interest that I should. I always tell him
that I think only of his interest; if he'd only trust me! But he's been so
odd lately--I can't think what he's plotting. You will help me, dear?"
Lydia, who had remained standing, looked away uncomfortably.
"If you mean by finding out what Lord Trevenna has told my husband, I'm
afraid it's impossible."
"Why impossible?"
"Because I infer that it was told in confidence."
Mrs. Cope stared incredulously.
"Well, what of that? Your husband looks such a dear--any one can see he's
awfully gone on you. What's to prevent your getting it out of him?"
Lydia flushed.
"I'm not a spy!" she exclaimed.
"A spy--a spy? How dare you?" Mrs. Cope flamed out. "Oh, I don't mean that
either! Don't be angry with me--I'm so miserable." She essayed a softer
note. "Do you call that spying--for one woman to help out another? I do
need help so dreadfully! I'm at my wits' end with Trevenna, I am indeed.
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