Effie sighed.
It was hopeless to argue or remonstrate. She felt as if the little home, so different from the beloved one in Whittington, was in reality constructed over a volcano—any day it might collapse. The weight of sorrow which pressed against her heart as she thought of this, of her father, of the old life, quite crushed the brave spirit for the moment. Where was George's honor? How dared he lead his mother into these extravagances, when he knew, too, when he knew——
Effie clasped her hands tightly together. She restrained her emotions with an effort, and turned the conversation to indifferent matters.
Mrs. Staunton was certainly in better spirits. There was a little color in her cheeks, and some of the old sweet brightness in her eves.
When George had been absent about an hour, she grew restless and distraite; she left her seat by Effie's side, and, going to the window, looked up and down the street.
"I hope the rain isn't coming on," she said; "he forgot to take an overcoat."
"Who, mother?"
"George."
"But really, mother dear, he isn't sugar; he won't melt."
"There you are again, Effie, making little of your brother. It so happens that he has a nice new coat on to-day, and I don't want it to get shabby at once."