“How can you speak like that, Clo!” cried her sister, flushing. “I beg you will be silent.”
“Beg, then,” retorted Clotilde, with a resumption of her old schoolroom ways. “Who cares? I shall talk as I like.”
“Do you think it is respectful to your husband or your duty as a woman to speak of—of—that man as you do.”
“Oh yes,” replied Clotilde carelessly. “Why not? I liked Marcus Glen ever so.”
“Clotilde! for heaven’s sake be silent. Think of your position—of what you are. Your words are terrible.”
“Terrible? What, because I said I liked Marcus Glen? Why, so I do. He’s a splendid fellow.”
Marie’s eyes sought the door, but they were quite alone, and she glanced back at her sister with a look of disgust and annoyance painted upon her face in vivid colours.
“Oh, there’s no one to hear us, and I don’t mind what I say before you, Rie. You won’t go and tell tales. You dare not. I say dare,” she continued, with a malignantly spiteful look in her countenance. “You were fond of Marcus Glen, weren’t you?”
Marie did not reply, but sat there with an outraged look upon her face, and Clotilde smiled to herself, and her eyes glittered with malicious delight as she went on:
“Do you know, Rie, I have a good mind to quarrel with you to-night, as I have got you here.”