“Mr Vine, I must appeal to you,” cried Leslie.
“No. It would be indecorous. I have told Mr Leslie, who has been persecuting Louise with his addresses, that it is an outrage at such a time; and that if our child marries there is a gentleman of good French lineage to be studied. That his wishes are built upon the sand, for Monsieur de Ligny—”
“Monsieur de Ligny?”
“A friend of mine,” said Aunt Marguerite quickly.
“Mr Vine,” said Leslie hotly, “I cannot stay here to discuss this matter with Miss Vine.”
“Miss Marguerite Vine,” said the old lady with an aggravating smile.
Leslie gave an impatient stamp with one foot, essayed to speak, and choking with disappointment and anger, failed, and hurried out of the house.
“Such insufferable insolence! And at a time like this,” cried Aunt Marguerite, contemptuously, as her brother with a curiously absorbed look upon his face began to pace the room.
“He has sent the poor girl sobbing to her room.”
“Louise has not engaged herself to this man, Marguerite?”