“Dear Katrine, he was always so good.”
“Good! Bah! What did he ever do for me? He hated my branch of the family, and our Creole blood. As if the D’Enghiens were not a fine old French family before the Capels were heard of.”
“But Katrine—”
“I will speak. I was dragged here to be present at this mummery, to have for my share a hundred pounds to buy mourning, and I vow I’ll spend it in Chinese mourning, and wear yellow instead of black. Why don’t those men come up instead of sitting smoking in that dining-room and leaving us alone in this mausoleum of a place? Here, ring, and send for them; I’m getting nervous, too. I’m catching it from you—weak little baby that you are.”
At that moment the door opened, and the two young men entered to go up to them, both speaking to Lydia, and then drawing their chairs nearer to Katrine.
“Are you nearly ready for the play, Mr Capel?” she said, after a time.
“The play!” he exclaimed.
“Yes; the curtain will rise directly. How do you feel, Gerard?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I want to hear how many chips the old boy has left me. Deuced glad to get out of this tomb. I say, would you mind me lighting a cigar?”
“I don’t mind,” said Katrine, lightly.