“She did not,—she could not. It suits you women to say these things, because you cultivate hypocrisy so carefully that you carry on the game with each other! How could any one, let her be ever so abject, like that incessant homage this old man exacted,—to be obliged to be alive to his vapid jokes and his dreary stories, to his twaddling reminiscences of college success or House of Commons—Irish House too—triumphs? Do you think if I wasn't a beggar I 'd go and submit myself to such a discipline?”
To this she made no reply, and for a while there was a silence in the room. At last he said, “You'll have to take up that line of character that she acted. You'll have to 'swing the incense' now. I'll be shot if I do.”
She gave no answer, and he went on: “You 'll have to train the brats too to salute him, and kiss his hand and call him—what are they to call him—grandpapa? Yes, they must say grandpapa. How I wish I had not sent in my papers! If I had only imagined I could have planted you all here, I could have gone back to my regiment and served out my time.”
“It might have been better,” said she, in a low voice.
“Of course it would have been better; each of us would have been free, and there are few people, be it said, take more out of their freedom,—eh, Madam?”
She shrugged her shoulders carelessly, but a slight, a very slight, flush colored her cheek.
“By the way, now we're on that subject, have you answered Lady Trafford's letter?”
“Yes,” said she; and now her cheek grew crimson.
“And what answer did you send?”
“I sent back everything.”