“No, you do not.”
“Yes, I do. Here’s Duncan Leslie, as good a fellow as ever stepped, who has stuck to her through thick and thin, in spite of my lady’s powder, and fan, and her insults.”
“Marguerite has been very sharp and spiteful to Mr Leslie,” said George Vine sadly.
“She’s mad. Well, he wants to marry the girl, and she has pitched him over.”
“Has Louise refused him?”
“He doesn’t say so; but I saw him, and that’s enough. Of course I know that at present—et cetera, et cetera; but the girl wants a husband; all girls do. There was one for her, and she is playing stand off with him. Just like woman. He! he! he! he!” He uttered a sneering laugh. “Going to marry Madge’s French count, I suppose—Monsieur le Comte de Mythville. There, I can’t help it, George, old lad; it makes me wild. Shake hands, old chap. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings; but between ourselves, though I’ve never shown it to a soul, I was rather hit upon the idea of Leslie marrying Louise.”
“I had thought it possible,” said George Vine, with a sigh.
“Her fault. Hang it all, George, be a man, and bestir yourself.”
“I am trying, brother Luke.”
“That’s right, lad; and for goodness’ sake put down your foot and keep Margaret in her place. Louy is soft now with trouble, and that wicked old woman will try to work her and mould her into what shape she pleases. You’ve had enough of Margaret.”