“About that dreadful affair?”
“No,” said Claire, with a curiously solemn look coming over her face, and her voice assuming a deep, tragic tone.
“Then it is about—oh, Claire!” she cried passionately, as she glanced up at a floridly painted portrait of herself on the wall; “I do wish you would take that picture down.”
“Why should you mind that? You know papa likes it.”
“Because it reminds me so of the past.”
“When you were so weak and frivolous with that poor fellow Louis.”
“Now I did not come here to be scolded,” cried the childlike little thing passionately. “I don’t care. I did love poor Louis, and he’d no business to go away and die.”
“Hush, hush, May, my darling,” said Claire, with a pained face. “I did not scold you.”
“You did,” sobbed the other; “you said something about Louis, and that you had something to talk to me about. What is it?” she cried with a look of childish fright in her eyes. “What is it?” she repeated, and she clung to her sister excitedly.
“Hush, hush, May, I was not going to scold, only to talk to you.”