‘Mamma! hush!’ said Sophy, releasing herself from her embrace, and keeping her body upright, though obliged to seat herself on the nearest chair. ‘It is not treason,’ she said slowly, as though her mouth were parched.
‘Contemptible fickleness!’ burst out Albinia, but Sophy implored silence by a gesture.
‘No,’ she said; ‘it was a dream, a degrading, humiliating dream; but it is over.’
‘There is no degradation except to the base trifler I once thought better things of.’
‘He has not trifled,’ said Sophy. ‘Wait! hush!’
There was a composure about her that awed Albinia, who stood watching in suspense while she went to the bed-room, drank some water, cooled her brow, pushed back her hair, and sitting down again in the same collected manner, which gave her almost a look of majesty, she said, ‘Promise me, mamma, that all shall go on as if this folly had never crossed our minds.’
‘I can’t! I can’t, Sophy!’ said Albinia in the greatest agitation. ‘I can’t unknow that you have been shamefully used.’
‘Then you will lead papa to break his promise to Genevieve, and lower me not only in my own eyes, but in those of every one.’
‘He little knew that he was bringing her here to destroy his daughter’s happiness. So that was why she held off from Mr. Hope,’ cried Albinia, burning with such indignation, that on some one she must expend it, but a tirade against the artfulness of the little French witch was cut off short by an authoritative—
‘Don’t, mamma! You are unjust! How can she help being loveable!’