'Friendship!' said he gloomily; 'how long will you seem to misunderstand me?'
Try as she might, Dolores could not feel kindly or well disposed towards her cousin Morganstjern, and her replies to him always sounded cold and formal, or taunting even to herself; and the face that bent over her was, she knew, not a good one, but sinister, and expressive of a bad and evil spirit within.
And now, as a somewhat palpable hint that his conversation wearied or worried her, she took up her flageolet, and putting the ivory mouthpiece to her rosy lips, began to play a sweet little air, while his brow became darker, for this now obsolete instrument (which had silver stops like the old English flute) had been a gift of Lewie Baronald's, who, in the gallantry of the day, had inserted a copy of verses addressed to herself, and which, of course, would only be found when the instrument was unscrewed to discover what marred its use.
Anon she paused; Maurice Morganstjern then glanced towards the Countess, and perceiving that she still slept, drew nearer to Dolores, and lowering his voice, said:
'Can you not love me a little, cousin?'
'Not as you wish,' she replied.
'Why?'
The musical voice of Dolores broke into a soft little laugh as she fanned herself, and said:
'Simply because one cannot love two persons at once.'
'Meaning that you love this—this accursed Schottlander?' he hissed through his set teeth.