Old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten let her fan sink by her side, and said coolly:
“Were you singing two hours ago—yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Then your headache can’t be so very bad, and Denise will dress you.”
“If she comes, I’ll send her away. When I just took the harp, I did so to sing the pain away. It was relieved for a few minutes, but now my temples are throbbing with twofold violence.”
“Excuses.”
“Believe what you choose. Besides—even if I felt better at this moment than a squirrel in the woods. I wouldn’t go down to see the gentlemen. I shall stay here. I have given my word, and I am a Hoogstraten as well as you.”
Henrica had risen, and her eyes flashed with a gloomy fire at her oppressor. The old lady waved her fan faster, and her projecting chin trembled. Then she said curtly:
“Your word of honor! So you won’t! You won’t!”
“Certainly not,” cried the young girl with undutiful positiveness.