Olivia was astonished to see the emotion of her aunt, for, as a rule Miss Wharf was cold and self-contained. The two had never got on well together, and the elder woman was undeniably jealous of the youth and superior good looks of the younger. But as Olivia owed bed and board to her aunt, she always behaved as well as possible to one who was very trying in many ways. It is only just to say, that Miss Pewsey made matters much worse by tale-bearing, and probably had she been out of the house, Miss Wharf and her niece might have got on better. But they could never have been congenial companions. The difference between their natures was too great.
"Yes," said Miss Wharf throwing herself back in her seat, and feeling irritated by the silence of Olivia. "I want an explanation."
"What about?" asked the girl seating herself opposite and folding her hands, which, Miss Wharf noticed with bitterness, were more slender and delicate that her own.
"You know well enough."
"If it's about Rupert"--
"There," snapped the aunt, "I knew you would guess. Yes it is about young Ainsleigh, and how dare you call him Rupert?"
"Because I love him," said Olivia firmly, and looked directly into the cold blue eyes of her aunt.
"Then you must put this love out of your head. You shall never marry him--never--never--never."
"If I choose, and I do choose," said Olivia calmly, but with a fine colour. "I shall certainly marry him. I am of age--"
"Yes, and a pauper."