Roland kept up with him and continued talking.
"It's a good thing all the world's not of your opinion, William Yorke!
You thought to put a slight upon Constance Channing, when you told her
she might go along, for you. It has turned out just the best luck that
could have happened to her."
"Be silent, sir," said Mr. Yorke, his pale cheek flushing. "I have
already told you that I will not permit you to mention Miss Channing's
name to me. You have nothing to do with her or with me."
"_You_ have nothing to do with her, at any rate," cried aggravating
Roland. "She'll soon belong to your betters, William Yorke."
Mr. Yorke turned his flashing eye upon him, plainly asking the
explanation that he would not condescend to ask in words. It gave
Roland an advantage, and he went on swimmingly with his mischief.
"Lord Carrick has seen the merits of Constance, if you have not; and--I
don't mind telling it you in confidence--has resolved to make her his
wife. He says she's the prettiest girl he has seen for ages."
"It is not true," said Mr. Yorke, haughtily.
"Not true!" returned Roland. "You'll see whether it's true or not, when
she's Countess of Carrick. Lady Augusta was present when he made her
the offer. He was half afraid to make it for some time, he told us, as
he was getting on in years, and had grey hair. Halloa! you are turning
pale, William Yorke. She can't be anything to you! You threw her away,
you know.
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