“Oh!” ejaculated Louise, as she stood till she heard a sharp tap at her aunt’s door and her brother enter, and close it after him. “Mr Pradelle, too, of all people in the world!”
“Ah, my darling,” cried Aunt Margaret, looking up from the tambour-frame and smoothing out the folds of her antique flowered peignoir. “Bring that stool, and come and sit down.”
Harry bent down and kissed her rather sulkily. Then in a half-contemptuous way he fetched the said stool, embroidered by the lady herself, and placed it at her feet.
“Sit down, my dear.”
Harry lowered himself into a very uncomfortable position, while Aunt Margaret placed one arm about his neck, struck a graceful pose, and began to smooth over the young man’s already too smooth hair.
“I want to have another very serious talk with you, my boy,” she said. “Ah, yes,” she continued, raising his chin and looking down in his disgusted face: “how every lineament shows your descent!”
“I say, aunt, I’ve just brushed my hair.”
“Yes, dear, but you should not hide your forehead. It is the brow of the Des Vignes.”
“Oh, all right, auntie, have it your own way. But, I say, have you got any money?”
“Alas! no, my boy.”