“Rie,” exclaimed Clotilde, as soon as they were in their room with Ruth, who was debating in her own mind whether she ought not to take her cousins into her confidence about Mr Montaigne, but shrinking from relating the communication to such unsympathetic ears.
“Well?”
“You, Ruth, if you dare to say a word about what we talk about, I’ll kill you!” cried Clotilde.
“I think you may trust me,” said Ruth, smiling.
“Then mind you do keep secret,” continued Clotilde. “Rie,” she cried again, “I can see through it all; I know what it means.”
“Do you?” said Marie quietly.
“Yes, they’re going to sell us both—a bargain.”
“Are they?” said Marie, who was thinking she would like to be sold to Marcus Glen.
“Yes, it’s going to be like it was in that novel of Georges Sand. We’re to be married to rich old men because we are young and beautiful; and if they marry me to one, I’m sorry for the old man.”
“Do you think so?”