“Now,” cried Honor, her passion having risen beyond all control, as she surveyed the pert, self-complacent little model—she dared not look at Mark Jervis—“I told you not to repeat stories. I have told you that over and over again, and yet you delight in doing it because it annoys people—and you do it with impunity. No one has ever punished you—but—I shall punish you.”
And before Mark guessed at what was about to happen, Miss Gordon—actively precipitate in her resentment—had snatched the picture from the easel before him, and torn it into four pieces!
“There!” she cried breathlessly, “you can get off that chair at once, Sweet. Mr. Jervis has done with you.”
Sweet opened her great violet eyes, and gazed in incredulous amazement. Never had she been so served. She had always hitherto made people angry, uncomfortable, or shocked, and gone scathless, and had invariably enjoyed what is known in sporting circles as “a walk over.”
Never had she seen such an angry young lady. How red her cheeks were—how brightly her eyes glittered. Then Sweet’s gaze fastened on her own picture, her mouth opened wide, and gave vent to an ear-splitting yell, as she tumbled off her chair, like a canary off its perch, and lay on the verandah, kicking and screaming.
“After all,” said Jervis, with an air of humble deprecation, “you need not have been so angry with the poor little beggar; she only spoke the truth.” (That he was a detrimental, or that he was in love with her—which?)
Attracted by vociferous shrieks, Mr. and Mrs. Brande rushed upon the scene from opposite doors. The languid ayah also appeared, and raised up her sobbing charge, who now and then varied her sobs by a shrill squeal of fury.
“What is it?” cried Mr. Brande, eagerly appealing to Honor and Mark. “I thought you were putting her to torture—at last!”
“What is it, dearie? What is it? tell me!” pleaded Mrs. Brande. “Come to me, lovey, and tell me all about it, doatie. There now—there now,” making dabs with her handkerchief at the child’s eyes.
“That,” suddenly stiffening herself in the ayah’s arms, and pointing a trembling finger at the guilty party, “that pig girl, tore up my pretty, pretty picture, because—I told her Mrs. Kane said that Mark was in love with her—she did say it, at the tea to Mrs. King, and that beast of a girl has torn my picture—and I’ll tell my mamma, I will—I will—and Mrs. Kane did say it—and Mrs. King said——”