In spite of that sullen downward gaze she was conscious of Fareham's
lingering.
"Why do you stay, my lord?" she asked, without looking up. "If your purse
is heavy there are friends of mine yonder who will lighten it for you,
fairly or foully. I have never made up my mind how far a gentleman may be a
rogue with impunity. If you don't love losing money you had best eat a good
supper and begone."
"I thank you, madam. I am more in the mood for cards than for feasting."
She did not answer him, but clasped her hands suddenly before her face and
gave a heart-breaking sigh. Fareham paused on the threshold of the gallery,
watching her, and then went slowly back, bent down to take the hand
that had dropped at her side, and pressed his lips upon it, silently,
respectfully, with a kind of homage that had become strange of late years
to Barbara Palmer. Adorers she had and to spare, toadeaters and flatterers,
a regiment of mercenaries; but these all wanted something of her--kisses,
smiles, influence, money. Disinterested respect was new.
"I thought you were a Puritan, Lord Fareham."
"I am a man; and I know what it is to suffer the hell-fire of jealousy."
"Jealousy, yes! I never was good at hiding my feelings.
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