"My son married to a Frenchwoman! Dear, dear, dear! Married! You can feel for me, monsieur, knowing as I do nothing of the person or family with whom he connected himself."
Lady Alice pressed her lean fingers over her heart, and swept the wall opposite, with dismal eyes, sighing at intervals, and gasping dolorously.
The old woman's egotism and impertinence did not vex him long or much. But the pretence of being absolutely above irritation from the feminine gender, in any extant sage, philosopher, or saint, is a despicable affectation. Man and woman were created with inflexible relations; each with the power in large measure or in infinitesimal doses, according to opportunity, to infuse the cup of the other's life with sweet or bitter—with nectar or with poison. Therefore great men and wise men have winced and will wince under the insults of small and even of old women.
"A year, you say, before my poor boy's death?"
"Yes, about that; a little more."
"Mademoiselle Varbarriere! H'm," mused Lady Alice.
"I did not say Varbarriere was the name," sneered he, with a deep-toned drawl.
"Why, you said, sir, did not you, that the Frenchwoman he married was your sister?"
"I said the lady who accepted him was my sister. I never said her name was Varbarriere, or that she was a Frenchwoman."
"Is not your name Varbarriere, sir?" exclaimed Lady Alice, opening her eyes very wide.