“To the devil, as likely as not.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that!”
“Max Brunswick,” said Miss Elsworth, as she stood by his bedside, “if you have no fear of a hereafter, I wish you would have respect enough for your poor mother to speak in milder terms. It is hard enough to see you in the condition that you are without making a bad matter worse by making light of the future.”
“How do you know my name is Brunswick?”
“It matters not how I know, but I know you have been called by that name.”
“Who are you?” he asked, in a careless way.
“I am just as you see me, a woman ready to help you in time of need, and it is my intention to do all in my power to add to your comfort.”
“Well, you are a devilish pretty one, at any rate.”
Blanche Elsworth’s face burned with a blush of insulted pride, and she was about to give an angry retort when her better judgment prevailed, and crushing down the anger she felt, she said in a quiet way: