“Miss Kavanagh; my son’s ward, and my own adopted daughter,” replied Mrs. Clifton, without withdrawing her fond gaze from the face of Kate, who was blushing under it.
“Miss Kavanagh, your son’s ward, and your own adopted daughter! A promising relationship all around, that is—up—on—my—word—it—is!” said Mr. Clifton, very deliberately. “However,” he added, “she has brought me to reflection, for which I thank her. And Mrs. Clifton, I feel sorry and mortified that I have been betrayed into some violence of speech and manner; it is a family failing, you know. Pray pardon me.”
“Mr. Clifton, please to sit down near me. My voice is not strong. It may be disquietude, but I find a difficulty in raising it, or in keeping up a running conversation.”
“My dear sister, I am afraid your lungs grow weak. I am indeed! I have noticed it before. I have said the same to Georgia and to Carolyn! Indeed, my dear sister Clifton, I wish you would take care of yourself. I was a brute to throw myself into a passion in your presence. I was, indeed! I see it has overcome you! Kate Kavanagh, my dear, you were perfectly right. I did forget myself. And you were a fine girl to recall me. Give me your hand, my dear.”
Blushing deeply, as was her wont when praised, Kate gave her hand, saying—half apologetically, half appealingly—
“Mrs. Clifton is not strong, sir. She should not be agitated, especially so soon after her son has left her.”
“I know she is not strong! My dear sister, I wish you’d be careful of yourself! I do, indeed! You’re not strong.”
“After fifty, we do not grow strong as we grow old,” said the lady, pointing to a chair by her side, and indicating that he should take it! He did so. And then Mrs. Clifton turned to Kate, and said—
“Now Catherine, my dear, I wish you to go up into my chamber and amuse yourself with a book, while I have a confidential talk with Mr. Clifton.”
Kate immediately arose, curtsied, and left the room.