“I’m sure I don’t know what to say, Max,” she whimpered, “unless it be—oh!”
She uttered a loud shriek.
“My poor darling! what is it?” cried Max. “Another of your little fits? There, go to her, Violante. She will be better soon.”
“Yes, yes—it is nothing,” faltered the unhappy woman. “I shall be better directly.”
She looked in a frightened way at her smooth, smiling lord, as she ground her teeth and pressed her lips together, to keep from moaning aloud.
Violante, who did not know what was the matter, jumped up and went to Mrs Max’s assistance; while the cat, who did know, having felt Max Shingle’s boot whisk by her ears as it struck Mrs Max, crept out of harm’s way, and curled up on the mat.
Tom Fraser and his brother Fred had risen and left the table, the one for Somerset House, the other for the office, before this incident occurred, or probably it would not have taken place; but Max had his reasons for not speaking sooner—one being that he fully intended Tom to marry his ward, and the other that he wished to pay his visit before the young men were aware of the fact.
On reaching his brother’s house, it was with a feeling of annoyance that he was ushered by the boy into the handsome dining-room, opening upon a conservatory, where, amongst other pictures, that of Dick and his wife occupied conspicuous places.
“So you say your master is at home, my man?” said Max, with his most urbane smile, as the boy came back from the study.
“Yes, sir; he don’t go out till nearly midday on Toosdays. He says will you wait five minutes, sir?”