“You will take some tea, Mr Leslie?”
Hah! The moment before the young man had felt ready to beat an ignominious retreat, but as soon as the voice of Louise Vine rang in his ears with that simple homely question, he looked up manfully, declared that he would take some tea, and in spite of himself glanced at Aunt Marguerite’s tightening lips, his eyes seeming to say, “Now, then, march out a brigade of de Lignys if you like.”
“And sugar, Mr Leslie?”
“And sugar,” he said, for he was ready to accept any sweets she would give.
Then he took the cup of tea, looked in the eyes that met his very frankly and pleasantly, and then his own rested upon a quaint-looking cornelian locket, which was evidently French.
There was nothing to an ordinary looker-on in that piece of jewellery, but somehow it troubled Duncan Leslie; and as he turned to speak to Aunt Marguerite, he felt that she had read his thoughts, and her lips had relaxed into a smile.
“Well, George, if you do not mind Mr Leslie hearing, I do not,” said Aunt Marguerite. “I must reiterate that the poor boy is growing every day more despondent and unhappy.”
“Nonsense, Margaret!”
“Ah, you may say nonsense, my good brother, but I understand his nature better that you. Yes, my dear,” she continued, “such a trade as that carried on by Mr Van Heldre is not a suitable avocation for your son.”
“Hah!” sighed Vine.