"My conscience, 'tis that dolt," thought his bride-elect, giving her hand with her false smile. "We expected you to dinner, but cook has my orders to get you up something, so come with me to the dining-room," she added, insinuatingly.
"Don't trouble about me, Miss Villiers, I beg; I had a bit of dinner at Morley's."
"Muff," thought Miss Villiers, spitefully, "not to have taken his chance to become acquainted."
"Margaret is, as you are aware, Mr. Babbington-Cole, the Christian name of my niece (and a beautiful name it is); she will be better pleased if you drop all formality, and call her so, eh, Margaret."
"Yes, under the circumstances," she answered, with a meaning glance.
"Thank you; I have not seen your sister yet; is she quite well?" he asked, timidly; for, with a forboding of evil, he unconsciously looked to the sister as an escape.
"Margaret's fascinations fall flat," thought her uncle, with a malicious chuckle.
"I don't take; he wants a milk and water miss, but no you don't, young man; you are my tool," thought his bride-elect, setting her teeth.
"My poor step-sister is well—I hope, but we never name her; she is a—a mistake; however, she is not your one."
"But is she not here?" said Cole, nervously, now really frightened, "does she not reside with you? My poor father said—" here he utterly broke down. Accustomed ever to lean on some one, of a clinging, trusting nature, with a strong spice of feminine gentleness, which caused him to turn to some woman friend for advice or moral support, so that here, in the hour of his greatest need, he feels doubly alone, as he gazes around at the three hard, cruel faces, each with a set purpose and false smile perceptibly engraven, he is in despair. Miss Villiers especially; will he ever cease to be haunted by her as she sits in a high Elizabethan chair, an ebony easel exactly on a line with her face, and partly behind her, on which is a frightful head of Medusa, the reptiles for hair looking to him, in his highly nervous state, like the tight, crisp curls and braids covering the head of his bride-elect, and the lines from Pitt's "Virgil" recurred to his memory: