“All right, I’ll go away when you like.”
Charlotte hardly heard her. “I’ll be ashamed to look me old friend, Lady Dysart, in the face!” She stormed on. “Disgracing her house by such goings on with an unprincipled blackguard that has no more idea of marrying you than I have—not that that’s anything to be regretted! An impudent little upstart without a halfpenny in his pocket, and as for family—” her contempt stemmed her volubility for a mouthing moment. “God only knows what gutter he sprang from; I don’t suppose he has a drop of blood in his whole body!”
“I’m not thinking of marrying him no more than he is of marrying me,” answered Francie in the same lifeless voice, but this time faltering a little. “You needn’t bother me about him, Charlotte; he’s engaged.”
“Engaged!” yelled Charlotte, squaring round at her cousin, and standing stock still in her amazement. “Why didn’t you tell me so before? When did you hear it?”
“I heard it some time ago from a person whose name I won’t give you,” said Francie, walking on. “They’re to be married before Christmas.” The lump rose at last in her throat, and she trod hard on the ground as she walked, in the effort to keep the tears back.
Charlotte girded her velveteen skirt still higher, and hurried clumsily after the light, graceful figure.
“Wait, child! Can’t ye wait for me? Are ye sure it’s true?”
Francie nodded.
“The young reprobate! To be making you so remarkable, and to have the other one up his sleeve all the time! Didn’t I say he had no notion of marrying ye?”
Francie made no reply, and Charlotte with some difficulty disengaged her hand from her wrappings and patted her on the back.