Lucilla had made her little pearls of teeth meet in the fleshy part of his palm.
Honora recoiled, shocked, producing the plaster from her pocket in an instant.
‘Little vixen,’ he said, half laughing; ‘but I was thankful to her for neither kicking nor struggling!’
‘Poor child!’ said Honora, ‘perhaps it was as much agony as passion!’
He shrugged his shoulders as he held out his hand for her operations, then hastily thanking her and wishing her good-bye, rushed off again, as the astonished Miss Wells appeared on the stairs. Honor shrank from telling her what wounds had been received, she thought the gentle lady would never get over such a proceeding, and, in fact, she herself felt somewhat as if she had undertaken the charge of a little wild cat, and quite uncertain what the young lady might do next. On entering the breakfast-room, they found her sunk down all in a heap, where her uncle had set her down, her elbows on a low footstool, and her head leaning on them, the eyes still gazing askance from under the brows, but all the energy and life gone from the little dejected figure.
‘Poor child! Dear little thing—won’t you come to me?’ She stirred not.
Miss Wells advanced, but the child’s only motion was to shake her frock at her, as if to keep her off; Honora, really afraid of the consequences of touching her, whispered that they would leave her to herself a little. The silver kettle came in, and tea was made.
‘Lucilla, my dear, the servants are coming in to prayers.’
She did not offer to move, and still Honora let her alone, and she remained in the same attitude while the psalm was read, but afterwards there was a little approximation to kneeling in her position.
‘Lucilla, dear child, you had better come to breakfast—’ Only another defying glance.