“Dear Andrew! this sun is too powerful for you. I beg you, withdraw into the shade of the house.”
She was about to help him with all her gentleness.
“Yes, yes. All right, Louisa,” rejoined Andrew. “Come, go and pack. The fly’ll be here, you know—too late for the coach, if you don’t mind, my lass. Ain’t you packed yet?”
The horrible fascination of vulgarity impelled the wretched lady to answer: “Are we herrings?” And then she laughed, but without any accompaniment.
“I am now going to dear Mrs. Bonner,” she said, with a tender glance at Lady Jocelyn.
“My mother is sleeping,” her ladyship remarked.
“Come, Carry, my darling!” cried Andrew.
Caroline looked at her sister. The Countess divined Andrew’s shameful trap.
“I was under an engagement to go and canvass this afternoon,” she said.
“Why, my dear Louisa, we’ve settled that in here this morning,” said Andrew. “Old Tom only stuck up a puppet to play with. We’ve knocked him over, and march in victorious—eh, my lady?”