The scorn expressed in her grandmother's tones acted in the same way as a touch of the whip about the ears of a thoroughbred mare. She started, and tears of wounded pride welled up in her flashing hazel eyes, but they were quickly forced back.
"I am a Beauchamp!" she cried, her lips quivering with anger, and her head thrown back. "Every one says I am my father over again."
"So you may be, in looks, Monica, but he would never have dreamed of addressing me in the manner you did just now."
"Well, perhaps he wasn't aggravated like I am. Miss Thompson is enough to provoke a saint," she added, sotto voce, with a furtive glance at the old lady's face.
But Mrs. Beauchamp took no notice of it; indeed, it is doubtful if she heard the remark, so engrossed was she in deciding how best to deliver the lecture she had undertaken to give Monica. A startled exclamation from her grandchild, who had been moodily staring out of one of the French windows, which overlooked a large sweep of the carriage drive, effectually roused her.
"Oh! now he's gone; I do call it too bad!"
"What do you mean, Monica?" queried the old lady, rising from her chair and following the direction of Monica's glance.
"Who has gone?"
"Why, Tom. The stable-boy, you know, grand-mamma," she added, as Mrs. Beauchamp looked incredulous. "I was in the yard when you sent for me, and he was telling me about the jolliest little wire-haired terrier his father wants to sell, and I----"
"Monica, how many times have I told you I will not allow you to frequent the stable-yard? I am sure it is there that you pick up all the vulgar expressions you are so continually using. I begin to think Miss Thompson is right in saying you are no lady."