isten to me. No interruptions, if you please.

"'I am Margaret Holmead, your blood relation. You have the Holmead
figure, and coloring, and I knew you were one of us as soon as you came
into the room. Well.

"'Do you see that hussy in the ruff over there? That is Mary Darragh,
Lady Benneville, my bitterest, bitterest enemy! See how she smiles at
me! Deceitful minx! When I tell you all you will surely take her out of
the room and fling her into the fire! For sixty years she has hung there
taunting me. They brought her down from the hall above just to spite me,
I do believe. 'Twas done in your grandfather's time. He was a Benneville
all over, and of course had no use for me. So for sixty long years I
have had to face Mary Darragh and submit to her impertinence, and I tell
you I am sick of it! Why do I hate her? For a very good reason, sir. Let
me tell you about it.

"'My troubles began at the Duchess of Bolton's ball, long before I came
to this dreadful America. The King was there, and Lady Morley-Frere. If
my voice trembles as I mention their names, it is with rage I assure
you, and no wonder--for God knows that between them they played me a
scurvy trick! Yes, these two were there, and Lord Benneville, my cousin,
the handsomest man in all England--indeed, in all the world, I thought.
He was tall and slight, with wavy hair, light brown, almost golden, in
the sunlight. His eyes were gray, a lovely shade, though those who hated
him swore 'twas green. A clever supple swordsman, and to the fore in all
the rough games that men delight in. His face was very winsome, yet
often swept by varying moods. I have seen it hard and stern, and again
alight with the keenest appreciation of one of my Lord Kenneth's
witticisms. And, too, I have seen it tender, pleading, and melancholy
almost unto tears. Ah me!

"'Lord Kenneth, older by several years; taller, darker, soured by a
great disappointment--so 'twas said--loved my Lord Benneville with all
the affection his selfish nature allowed. And Benneville returned it
frankly, in his open boyish fashion. They were ever together, and their
adventures and daring escapades more than once nearly threw them into
serious trouble. But what cared they, crack-brained as they were? Why,
on one pitch dark night, masked and mounted, my Lords Kenneth and
Benneville held up the Royal Mail, frightened the passengers almost to
death, and alarmed the whole countryside; sober folk who thought the
Devil hims