"It's Elizabeth's doing," answered Percival, coolly. "She and my father between them got up an Italian craze; and off they went as soon as ever she came into that property, dragging the family behind them, all laden with books on Italian art, and quoting Augustus Hare, Symonds, and Ruskin indiscriminately. I don't suppose Kitty will have a brain left to stand on when she comes back again—if ever she does come back."
"What do you mean?" said Rupert, with a sudden deep change of voice.
"I mean—nothing. I mean, if she does not marry an Italian count or an English adventurer, or catch malaria and die in a swamp."
"Good Heavens, Percival! how can you talk so coolly? One would think that it was a joke!"
Vivian had risen from his chair, and was standing erect, with a decided frown upon his brow. Percival glanced at him, and answered lightly.
"Don't make such a pother about nothing. She's all right. They're in a very healthy place; a little seaside village, where it has been quite cool, they say, so far. And they will return before long, because they mean to spend the autumn in Scotland. Yes, they say it is 'quite cool' at present. Don't see how it can be cool myself; but that's their look out. They've all been very well, and there's no immediate prospect of the marriage of either of the girls with an Italian or an English adventurer; not even of Miss Murray with your humble servant."
Rupert threw himself back into his chair again as if relieved, and a half-smile crossed his countenance.
"How is Miss Murray?" he asked, rather maliciously.
"Very well, as far as I know," said Percival, turning over a page and smoothing out the "Review" upon his knee. He read on for two or three minutes more, then suddenly tossed the book from him, gave it a contemptuous kick, and discovered that his cigar had gone out. He got up, walked to the mantelpiece, found a match, and lighted it, and then said, deliberately—
"They've done a devilish imprudent thing out there."