"Here is your tea, mother. Can you not stop talking for a little? You will wear yourself out."
"What a queer, stern, cold voice you have, Florence! You are not half as interested as you used to be."
"Do drink your tea, mother."
Mrs. Aylmer was not proof against the fragrant cup. She broke a piece of toast and put it into her mouth, she sipped her tea, but nothing could stop her narrative.
"Soon after he left, that wicked young man," she resumed, "poor Susan fell ill. She got worse and worse, and what apparently was only a slight attack soon assumed serious dimensions, and there is little hope of her life, and Bertha tells me that she has altered her will or is about to alter it. I cannot quite make out whether it is done or whether it is about to be done; but anyhow, Flo, you and I go back to Aylmer's Court to-night. By hook or by crook we will show ourselves, my love, and I will take the responsibility of leading you into your aunt's room, and you shall go on your knees and beg her forgiveness. That is what I have come about, Florence. It is not too late. Poor Bertha, I can see, is quite on our side. It is not too late, my love; we will catch the very next train."
"You don't know what you are saying, mother. It is absolutely impossible for me to go."
"My dearest Flo, why?"
"Let me tell you something. You blame Mr. Trevor."
"I always blame ungrateful people," said Mrs. Aylmer, putting on a most virtuous air.
"And yet," said Florence—"yes, I will speak. Do you know who the worthless girl was for whom he gave up great wealth and a high position?"