Oh, Meg! Was it she? No; old Wyat whispered Madame something about her room.
So Madame re-entered, with a little silver tray and flagon in her hands, and a glass. Nothing came from Uncle Silas in ungentlemanlike fashion.
'Drink, Maud,' said Madame, raising the cover, and evidently enjoying the fragrant steam.
I could not. I might have done so had I been able to swallow anything—for I was too distracted to think of Meg's warning.
Madame suddenly recollected her mistake of that evening, and tried the door; but it was duly locked. She took the key from her pocket and placed it in her breast.
'You weel 'av these rooms to yourself, ma chère. I shall sleep downstairs to-night.'
She poured out some of the hot claret into the glass abstractedly, and drank it off.
''Tis very good—I drank without theenk. Bote 'tis very good. Why don't you drink some?'
'I could not', I repeated. And Madame boldly helped herself.
'Vary polite, certally, to Madame was it to send nothing at all for hair' (so she pronounced 'her'); 'bote is all same thing.' And so she ran on in her tipsy vein, which was loud and sarcastic, with a fierce laugh now and then.