"I could not have married him, dear."
"Why nott?"
"Because he was so effeminate, so sentimental, and, above all, so dark. Why he was like a black-a-moor!"
"Verona, it is awfullee wicked to talk like that!" cried Madame, with unusual excitement. "What harm is a little black blood to anyone? It is a great sin to be so particular—some of the Saints are ink-black in their pictures. Oh, you may yet be punished for such shocking pride!"
"But, dear darling, it is not pride; it is antipathy. I cannot help it, it is born in me. There were two West Indian girls at the dancing class, and I could not endure them for partners. I shuddered when our hands met, their touch seemed so boneless and damp."
"I tell you, you may be sorry for this sinful feeling, some day."
"Yes, indeed, auntie. I'm sorry now, but I really can't help myself. I am afraid you are very tired, dear," she continued, again stroking the old lady's withered hand, "that lawyer, Mr. Middlemass, absorbs too much time; he was here for nearly an hour this afternoon. What were you doing?"
"I was giving him instructions about my will—he was drawing it up."
"But I thought you had made it ages ago."
"Oh, yes, several wills. The fact is, lovey," and here she placed her hand over Verona's, "I am superstitious. I've always thought it so unlucky to make my will. Yet I've done it, because Mr. Middlemass has been troublesome, and 'dicked' me so, for your sake. Then when I feel ill, I say to myself, oh, it's all because of this horrid old will, and so I will burn it! I have burned three"—there was a distinct note of exultation in the confession—"now I am mailing," here she heaved a deep sigh, "another."