“What does it matter now? You are looking as if—as if—Rie! Here, take my salts.”
“Keep back, woman—don’t touch me!” cried Marie, in a low voice. “Sister? No, you must be a demon, and—oh! God help me! God help me!” she wailed; “what have I done?”
Clotilde rushed at her with an imperious “Hush!” but her sister avoided her grasp, and fled to the bell, rang it furiously, and startled Clotilde into silence, as a servant hurried up.
“Quick! I am ill. Fetch Lord Henry,” gasped Marie; and as the butler hurried out, she followed him downstairs, leaving her sister too much startled by the effects of her revelation to do more than listen at the half-opened door.
“What do I care!” she said at last. “She is ill, and she is gone. She will not dare to say a word, and I can live down any nonsense on the part of Rie.”
The front door closed as she uttered these words, after which she turned back into the room, and threw herself upon a couch.
“I wish someone would come, if it was only stupid little Dick,” she said pettishly. “Poor old Rie! But she did not marry Marcus Glen.”
Clotilde’s white teeth closed with a snap, and she lay perfectly still, gazing at her handsome face in the nearest glass.