“Well, Louise, child, I am waiting,” she continued, turning her eyes in a half pitying, condescending way upon her niece. “Well? May I count upon you?”
“Aunt dear—”
“It will do you good. You look too pale. This place crushes you down, and narrows your intellect, my child. A little French society would work a vast change in you.”
“Aunt, dear,” said Louise, rising and crossing to her to lay her hands upon the old lady’s shoulder, “don’t talk about such things now. Let me come up to your room, and read to you a little while.”
Aunt Marguerite smiled.
“My dear Louise, why do you talk to me like this? Do you take me for a child?”
George Vine heaved a deep sigh, and turned in his chair.
“Do you think I have lived all these years in the world and do not know what is best for such a girl as you?”
“But indeed, aunt, I am not ill. I do not require a change.”
“Ah, poor young obstinacy! I must take you well in hand, child, and see if I cannot teach you to comport yourself more in accordance with your position in life. I shall have time now, especially during our little journey. When would it be convenient for you to be ready?”