“Louisa, I don’t know whether I am justified: you told me to-day I might keep my jewels, trinkets, and lace, and such like. To me, I know they do not belong now: but I will dispose of them to procure you an asylum somewhere—they will fetch, I should think, £400,—to prevent your going to Mr. Duffian.”
No exhibition of great-mindedness which the Countess could perceive, ever found her below it.
“Never, love, never!” she said.
“Then, will you go to Evan?”
“Evan? I hate him!” The olive-hued visage was dark. It brightened as she added, “At least as much as my religious sentiments permit me to. A boy who has thwarted me at every turn!—disgraced us! Indeed, I find it difficult to pardon you the supposition of such a possibility as your own consent to look on him ever again, Harriet.”
“You have no children,” said Mrs. Andrew.
The Countess mournfully admitted it.
“There lies your danger with Mr. Duffian, Louisa!”
“What! do you doubt my virtue?” asked the Countess.
“Pish! I fear something different. You understand me. Mr. Duffian’s moral reputation is none of the best, perhaps.”