"Maurice begs to speak to you for a moment."
"Very good. Can he not come to me?"
"He entreats that you will go into the drawing-room."
"Do you mean to intimate," asked the countess, sternly, "that my grandson ventures to summon me to his presence, instead of coming to mine? What indignity am I to expect next? Since he has forgotten his duty and the deference due to me, go and remind him."
"He has something very serious to tell you," faltered Bertha; "he wants you to hear it there,—it is so sad."
Bertha, in spite of her aunt's contemptuous glances, could not help burying her face in her handkerchief again.
"What absurdity!" sneered the countess; but she began to experience a vague sensation of uneasiness.
"Come! come! do come!" pleaded Bertha.
"Since it seems the only way to put an end to this hysterical exhibition of yours, Bertha, I will go and reprove Maurice for his lack of respect."