"Nothing on earth, but because she can't have the management of everything in her own hands. Cousin Hermione is a spoilt child, and that's the beginning and end of the matter. More shame to those who spoilt her!" added Mrs. Trevor, with a virtuous air peculiar to those who are condemning in another their own faults.
"My Marjory says cousin Hermione is so truly good. And old Sutton calls her an angel."
Mrs. Trevor's laugh had a sound of contempt. "It's an uncommonly angelic temper. I doubt if your Marjory's brother will be of her opinion after to-day. He didn't appear to be delighted."
"Francesca, there's no need to talk so to the child," Julia said, in a pained voice. "Things are bad enough already. Why must you make them worse? If I were in Hermione's place, I should be miserable."
Francesca sauntered out of the room, humming a tone to herself, and Mittie remarked in childish imitation, "I should think cousin Hermione must be miserable."
[CHAPTER XXI.]
"STIFF-NECKED."
HERMIONE was miserable. She had scarcely reached her own room, when the tide of shame and unhappiness rushed over her, swamping even wrath for the moment.
She knew how she had fallen, knew how she had disgraced herself, knew how this petty ebullition of temper must have lowered her in the eyes of all who witnessed it,—Francesca, Julia, Mittie, Mr. Fitzalan, Harry, even Slade. Hermione went over the names, not refusing to look the truth in the face. A bitter truth it was. She who so prided herself on calm repose of manner and control of temper—she to have been betrayed into a childish outburst of fury. Hermione could not understand how it had come about, how in one instant her shield of composure had given way. The thing seemed incredible, after all these years of self-command.
A very agony of shame overpowered Hermione—shame at having so lowered herself. That was the real grief; the unbearable pain. Her sorrow was for her own disgrace. She despised herself for the fall, and she hated Francesca for being the cause of her fall. As she sat by the bed, her face buried in the pillow, her hands clutching the counterpane, no softer regrets mingled with the bitter shame and anger.