“I must speak to this man alone.”
“Aunt, dear—”
“Pray go, Miss Vine,” said Leslie, approaching and taking her hand.
She yielded, and he led her to the door.
“Nothing your aunt can say will change my feelings towards you. When you are calm you will forgive me. Believe me, I will do everything to clear your brother from this charge.”
She looked at him wildly, and still hesitated to obey her aunt’s words. Finally, she gave way, Leslie held the door open till she was on the stairs, and then closed it, his manner completely changing as he turned and faced Aunt Marguerite, who stood with her head thrown back, and an indignant look of anger in her keen eyes.
“So, sir,” she exclaimed, “you, in your common ignorance of everything connected with the social life of such a family as ours, dare to come up as a tale-bearer—as one of our servants did a few minutes back—and tell this pitiful story about my nephew.”
“I grieved greatly, Miss Vine,” said Leslie in quiet business-like tones.
“You grieved!” she cried. “A theft! Do you know that a des Vignes would prefer death to dishonour?”
“No, madam; but I am very glad to hear it, for that being the case Harry Vine must be innocent.”