“You are right,” said she, pityingly. “Forgive me. In my selfishness and my usual folly, I did not see this coming on, or I would have spared you this mortification.”
“Never mind that,” gulped the little earl. “I shall always be proud I knew you, and proud I loved you, and offered you my hand.”
Then the magnanimous little fellow blessed her, and left her, and discontinued his visits.
Mr. Lusignan found her crying, and got the truth out of her. He was in despair. He remonstrated kindly, but firmly. Truth compels me to say that she politely ignored him. He observed that phenomenon, and said, “Very well then, I shall telegraph for Uncle Philip.”
“Do,” said the rebel. “He is always welcome.”
Philip, telegraphed, came down that evening; likewise his little black bag. He found them in the drawing-room: papa with the Pall Mall Gazette, Rosa seated, sewing, at a lamp. She made little Christie's clothes herself,—fancy that!
Having ascertained that the little boy was well, Philip, adroitly hiding that he had come down torn with anxiety on that head, inquired with a show of contemptuous indifference, whose cat was dead.
“Nobody's,” said Lusignan crossly. Then he turned and pointed the Gazette at his offspring. “Do you see that young lady stitching there so demurely?”
Philip carefully wiped and then put on his spectacles.
“I see her,” said he. “She does look a little too innocent. None of them are really so innocent as all that. Has she been swearing at the nurse, and boxing her ears?”