Half Converted.
“Well, Leslie,” said Uncle Luke, as he stood gazing at the closed door through which the two women had passed, “What do you think of that?”
“Think of that?” said Leslie absently.
“Those two. Deadly enemies grown friends. My sister will be adopting you directly, you miserable low-born Scotch pleb, without a drop of noble French blood in your veins.”
“Poor old woman!” said Leslie absently.
“Ah, poor old woman! Margaret and I ought to be shut up together in some private asylum. Well, you have slept on all that?”
“No,” said Leslie sadly. “I have not slept.”
“You’re—well, I won’t say what you are—well?”
“Well?” said Leslie, sadly.
“You have come to your senses, I hope.”