"I entreat your ladyship to pardon me," she resumed. "I have
something serious to say. I am afraid--"
"I understand. You are afraid of crossing the Channel, and you
don't like to acknowledge it. Pooh! The passage barely lasts two
hours; we will shut ourselves up in a private cabin. I will send
at once--the courier may be engaged. Ring the bell."
"Lady Janet, I must submit to my hard lot. I cannot hope to
associate myself again with any future plans of yours--"
"What! you are afraid of our 'Bohemian life' in Paris? Observe
this, Grace! If there is one thing I hate more than another, it
is 'an old head on young shoulders.' I say no more. Ring the
bell."
"This cannot go on, Lady Janet! No words can say how unworthy I
feel of your kindness, how ashamed I am--"
"Upon my honor, my dear, I agree with you. You _ought_ to be
ashamed, at your age, of making me get up to ring the bell."
Her obstinacy was immovable; she attempted to rise from the
couch. But one choice was left to Mercy. She anticipated Lady
Janet, and rang the bell.
The man-servant came in. He had his little letter-tray in his
hand, with a card on it, and a sheet of paper beside the card,
which looked like an open letter.
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