'Distasteful! Oh! Allan, don't say so,' said she, impressed by the pathos of his tone, but for a moment only; 'it is you who think, or seem to think so.'
'Olive!' he exclaimed, a little impatiently and reproachfully as he drew near her.
'There—there—that will do,' said she, starting up, 'don't bring down the ceiling on me—auntie more than all!'
And she swept from the room, leaving the idol behind her.
Allan sighed with annoyance, and addressed her no more during the whole of that day. She was conscious of this, for she remarked to Lady Aberfeldie in the evening,
'How odd—how strange Cousin Allan is to me!'
'Strange?'
'Yes, aunt.'
'I know not what you mean, Olive,' she replied, a little gravely and severely; 'but to me it seems that you are always strange, and not my son, the Master.'
Lady Aberfeldie had a soft, but set face of the classic type, with a mouth that, though beautiful and aristocratic, could become very fixed in expression at times, and it seemed so now to Olive, thus that young lady withdrew.