But there was in the prematurely old and wasted face something that told of a wrecked life. Olive, prone to romance-weaving, wondered whether nature had in a mere freak invested an ordinary low-born woman with the form of the ancient queens of the world, or whether within that grand body lay ruined an equally grand soul.
Miss Meliora did not think about anything of the sort; but merely that her brother's dinner-hour was drawing near, and that if poor Mrs. Manners did not wake, they must go back without speaking to her.
But she did wake soon—and the paroxysm of anger which seized her on discovering that she had intruding guests, caused Olive to retire almost to the staircase. But brave little Miss Vanbrugh did not so easily give up her charitable purpose.
“Indeed, my good woman, I only meant to offer you sympathy, or any help you might need in your illness.”
The woman refused both. “I tell you we want for nothing.”
“Ma mie, I am so hungry!” said little Christal, in a tone between complaint and effrontery. “I will have something to eat.”
“You should not speak so rudely to your mother, little girl,” interposed Miss Meliora.
“My mother! No, indeed; she is only ma mie. My mother was a rich lady, and my father a noble gentleman.”
“Hear her, Heaven! oh, hear her!” groaned the woman on the floor.
“But I love ma mie very much—that's when she's kind to me,” said Christal; “and as for my own father and mother, who cares for them, for, as ma mie says, they were drowned together in the deep sea, years ago.”