She looked at him wildly, and still hesitated to obey her aunt’s words. Finally, she gave way, Leslie held the door open till she was on the stairs, and then closed it, his manner completely changing as he turned and faced Aunt Marguerite, who stood with her head thrown back, and an indignant look of anger in her keen eyes.
“So, sir,” she exclaimed, “you in your common ignorance of everything connected with the social life of such a family as ours, dare to come up as a tale-bearer—as one of our servants did a few minutes back—and tell this pitiful story about my nephew.”
“I grieved greatly, Miss Vine,” said Leslie in quiet businesslike tones.
“You grieved!” she cried. “A theft! Do you know that a Des Vignes would prefer death to dishonour?”
“No, madam; but I am very glad to hear it, for that being the case Henry Vine must be innocent.”
“Innocent!” she cried scornfully. “My nephew Henri! As if it could be for a moment in doubt!”
“I shall strive hard to help Mr Vine, your brother, to clear him from this disgrace.”
“Disgrace, sir? It is no disgrace. If the canaille cast mud at one of noble lineage, does it disgrace him? No. The disgrace is where some plebeian—some trading person—is mad enough to advance his pretensions, and dares to address a lady as I heard you address my niece. Let me see, sir, did I not once give you to understand that Miss Louise des Vignes would in all probability be soon married to a gentleman of Auvergne—a gentleman whose lineage is as noble as her own?”
“I did understand something of the kind, madam, but until I see Miss Louise Vine another’s wife I shall boldly advance my pretensions, hoping to the last.”
“Even supposing that her brother has committed some faux pas?”