Mariana looked up with almost startled eyes. “Don’t like him? I like everyone.”
“I don’t like him,” persisted Rosalie. “He’s one of those men who always does what he is told. If Mr. Barringcourt told him to wring your neck round, or mine, he’d do it soon—as soon as wink.”
“Of course,” said Mariana, as if that were the acme of perfection.
“Well, he has neither heart nor head. Now, if Mr. Barringcourt told me to wring your neck, I’d tell him to do it himself, I’d had no practice that way.”
Mariana looked at her in utter surprise, and then suddenly she sank back upon the velvet seat, and began to laugh. Unhappily, her merriment did not last, for almost as suddenly she jumped up again, her face white with pain, and her features drawn and contracted.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t make me laugh! The pain at my heart is something terrible,” and she caught Rosalie’s arm in her hand, quite unconscious of the strength of the grip she had taken.
In surprise and alarm, the unconscious offender stood still.
“What is it?” she gasped at length. “Is the pain very bad?”
Mariana looked at her and nodded.
“Talk about one’s heart breaking,” she said, with a wintry smile. “Every time I laugh I get that feeling.”