“I sometimes feel as if I were going mad—I don’t care now if we have some bad accident. I only hope it will kill me.—Yours sincerely,
“Owen Wynyard.”
It was the Honourable Mrs. Ramsay, daughter of the late, and sister of the present, Viscount Ballingarry—and not Katie—who, that evening, entered Aurea’s bedroom immediately after a knock. She discovered her young victim in a charming white negligé and a rose silk petticoat, engaged in brushing her magnificent hair. There was war in the visitor’s face as she seated herself, and, after a moment’s expressive silence, fired her first gun.
“Aurea, I want you to tell me why you were so amazingly, so cruelly, rude to Owen, your aunts’ chauffeur?”
Miss Aurea, after a glance at her friend, coolly replied—
“Why should I be called upon to do the polite to my aunts’ ci-devant employé?”
“Aurea! This is not you—there must be some crooked turn in you, or there’s some other detestable girl in your body!”
“It is Aurea Morven, I assure you,” and she drew herself together with a quick movement; “and I do not wish to hear anything of Owen, the chauffeur. I know more about him than you suppose.”
“You don’t know a quarter as much as I do!” retorted Mrs. Ramsay with decision, and her eyes gleamed.
“I know that he was on a ranch in South America, that he was a waiter on the Anaconda——”