“For Heaven’s sake, Marguerite!” cried Vine impetuously. “No—no, no,” he muttered, checking himself hastily. “Better not—better not.”
“I beg your pardon, brother,” she said, raising her glass.
“Nothing—nothing,” he replied.
“Well, Louise, child, I am waiting,” she continued, turning her eyes in a half-pitying, condescending way upon her niece. “Well? May I count upon you?”
“Aunt, dear—”
“It will do you good. You look too pale. This place crushes you down, and narrows your intellect, my child. A little French society would work a vast change in you.”
“Aunt, clear,” said Louise, rising and crossing to her to lay her hands upon the old lady’s shoulder, “don’t talk about such things now. Let me come up to your room, and read to you a little while.”
Aunt Marguerite smiled.
“My dear Louise, why do you talk to me like this? Do you take me for a child?”
George Vine heaved a deep sigh, and turned in his chair.