“I could give you something for that cough, child,” said he. Then his withered cheek began to kindle, “Something to soothe the cough first, and then, perhaps, I—I—that restless temperament of yours, that dissatisfied and capricious disposition—the Star-of-Comfort, indeed——”
She shook her hand in his face.
“Not I,” she gasped. “No more quackery for me! Lord, I’m as tough as a worm, Simon.” She laughed and coughed and struggled for breath. “I believe if you were to cut me up into little bits, I’d wriggle together again, but I’ll not answer for poison.”
She flung him a malicious look and flaunted forth, ostentatiously oblivious of Ellinor—her habitual practise when not openly insulting.
When Sir David and Master Simon were alone together the old man went solemnly up to his cousin, and laid his hand upon his breast.
“David,” said he, “that sister of yours won’t live another year unless she gives up the adverse climate of Scotland, the impure air of the town and the racket of fashionable life.”
“Tell her so, then,” said Sir David.
Master Simon drew back and blinkingly surveyed the set face with an expression of doubt, surprise and unwilling respect.
“The woman’s ill,” he ventured at last.
“Shall I bid her rest? Shall I cancel those letters of invitation?” asked Sir David ironically.