Lucy’s cool. “Idiot!” She raged inwardly while she walked along with that air of self-contained serenity that is proper to a young lady of nearly two-and-twenty under the eye of the world. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by night. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out.
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