“No, no,” said she, forcing a laugh; “you have not shaved these two days, and you are quite neglected-look-ing. You sha'n't see yourself in such a state.”
“Bring it this minute, I say,” said he, passionately, and in a voice that grew less and less articulate every moment.
“Now pray be patient, dearest papa.”
“Then I'll go for it myself;” and with these words he grasped the arm of the chair and tried to rise.
“There, there,” said she, softly forcing him back into his seat, “I 'll fetch it at once. I wish you would be persuaded, dear papa—” began she, still holding the glass in her hands. But he snatched it rudely from her, and placed it before him.
“That's what it is,” said he, at last; “handsome Paul Kellett they used to call me at Corfu. I wonder what they'd say now?”
“It is a mere passing thing, a spasm of some kind.”
“Ay,” said he, with a mocking laugh, to which the distortion imparted a shocking expression. “Both sides will be the same—to-morrow or next day—I know that.”
She could hear no more, but, covering her face with her hands, sobbed bitterly.
Kellett still continued to look at himself in the glass; and whether the contortion was produced by the malady or a passing emotion, a half-sardonic laugh was on his features as he said, “I was wrong when I said I'd never be chapfallen.”