Poor Content was far from being an example, or even a “lovely-minded girl,” at that moment. She did not remember to have ever been so angry in her life. And yet, since there had been no word uttered, there could be nothing to contest. For once she felt that she would enjoy a good squabble—it would have been such a relief to her feelings. But one glance into Melville’s darkening eyes and frowning brow convinced her that she could safely leave the matter in his hands; and it was with a satisfaction which proved her to be most humanly erring that the girl laid down her book and went away.
“Deliver me from a saint!”
“What?” sweetly asked Paula. Having carried her point she was in a most complacent mood.
“I said,—Deliver me from a saint! That’s you! Do you hear? Understand?”
“Yes, I hear; but I do not mind it. You are so ill that you are scarcely responsible for what you say. I mean”—for she suddenly recollected that she was about to lecture her cousin on his wretched lack of self-control, and was contradicting herself beforehand—“I mean, that although you are hard to get along with, I at least have sympathy with you.”
“Hang your sympathy!” retorted its ungrateful recipient.
Paula paid no heed. “Shall I go on reading where Content left off?”
“No!” thundered this lad of the mighty voice. “It would be sacrilege.”
“What do you mean?” asked Paula, forgetting for an instant the rôle of angel she had intended to play.
“I mean that it isn’t such a prig as you who can understand Dickens!”