"If old Fernanda had not been so weecked we should never have seen you at all. No?" Mrs. Chandos concluded most of her sentences with a staccato-like note of negation.
"Which would have been our misfortune," supplemented Mr. Chandos, with unexpected force. "We are all glad to claim Verona."
As he spoke his eyes rested on this mute newcomer with a look of melancholy pride. Here was the only one among his children who was a true Chandos in bearing and breeding; the little fledgling who, twenty years previously, had, despite his remonstrances, been thrust out of the nest. What a difference her companionship would have made to him!—an ever present reminder of his home and youth. Would she be a comfort to him now? or would she hate and despise him (he cringed mentally at the thought) for having given her such a mother?
"And now you have seen us all, what do you think of us?" demanded Mrs. Chandos.
Verona was still too stunned to speak; her sole reply was a sickly smile.
"You know all about Blanche."
"And she doesn't count now she's married," protested Dominga; "she made such a bad match; he is only in the telegraph at one hundred and twenty rupees a month. Oh, she was a mad girl!"
"Come, I wonder what you think of us," reiterated her mother, who seemed determined to extract some reply to her question. "My! how white you look! You are tired; better have some tea, it is arl ready."
"No, thank you," faltered Verona, "I had some at the station."
"Whatt," wheeling sharply on her husband, "thatt was just waste, and must have cost one rupee; but you always have these grand lord ways when you are alone, and you forget your big family and small pay. No?"