“I thank you, dear uncle. And since you are so kind, will you give orders that in future, whenever David Lindsay comes to take me to see my dee-ar old friend on the islet, I may promptly be informed of his presence?” inquired Gloria, with a grave earnestness that was more like a gracious command than a request.
“My dearest, yes! even that, if you make a point of it.”
“I do make a point of it.”
“I sent the young man away, I should explain, because I wished you quietly rid of him.”
“Rid of David Lindsay, uncle! Why should I be rid of him?”
“Gloria, I appreciate your need of a mother’s guidance; but—is it possible that you have no intuitions to direct you?” gravely and sadly inquired the colonel.
“If by intuitions, uncle, you mean inward teachings, yes. I have them; they are, perhaps, the best, if not the only instructions I have; and from them I learn to understand, respect, and trust him—David Lindsay—more than I can any other human being, except, perhaps, his grandmother and—yourself.”
“His grandmother and myself! Thank you, my dear,” said the colonel, wincing.
Gloria laughed. She very seldom laughed, but when she did the silver cadence of her laughter was like the shiver of silver bells, a delight to hear.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, uncle! I should have said the Emperor Napoleon and yourself; only, unfortunately, I am not intimate enough with his imperial majesty to know whether I respect him or not.”