“A great wrench for old Mr. Raymond no doubt, and he seems to me to be breaking up. To-night, for instance, he was quite tremulous. I was sorry to see that.”
“So was I,” muttered Lydia rather viciously. It was really too bad of Grandpapa to put on those airs that would take in anyone who did not know all of which he was capable.
“The old are perhaps less apt at concealing their feelings than we younger folk,” pursued Mr. Almond. “Now, I’m sure my good friends, your aunt and uncle, have not allowed you to see how deeply your decision will affect them.”
“They’ve been very kind,” said Lydia with emphasis. She was anxious that no one should think her ungrateful.
“I have no doubt of it at all—none whatever. A most kind-hearted fellow is George—most kind-hearted. And as for Miss Raymond—well, I need not tell you what she is. I am sure that you remember her devoted nursing of you—for which she afterwards suffered so severely—on the occasion of some childish ailment of yours a couple of years ago.”
Mr. Almond fixed an eye of melancholy severity upon Lydia, looking as though he were much less sure than he alleged himself to be of her remembering the occasion in question, and was consequently determined to recall it to her memory.
Lydia was speechless with indignation.
Pneumonia a childish ailment!
One of the chief crises of her youth to be recalled merely as the setting for the jewel of Aunt Beryl’s self-devotion!
Mr. Almond was worse than Grandpapa even.