The widow had approached her uncle’s chair, leaving the rest of the party in the background. Pale and defiant, she did battle with her two sisters, fighting sturdily in the cause of her idolized son, who seemed a great deal too listless and indifferent to look after his own interests.
The ladies in possession glared at their sister’s pale face with spiteful eyes; they were a little daunted by the widow’s air of resolution.
“Who are these people, Ellen Darrell?” asked the younger of the two old maids. “Do you want to kill my uncle, that you bring a crowd of strangers to intrude upon him at a time when his nerves are at their worst?”
“I have not brought a crowd of strangers. One of those people is my son, who has come to pay his respects to his uncle after his return from India.”
“Launcelot Darrell returned!” exclaimed the two ladies, simultaneously.
“Yes, returned to look after his own interests; returned with very grateful feelings towards those who prompted his being sent away from his native country to waste his youth in an unhealthy climate.”
“Some people get on in India,” Miss Lavinia de Crespigny said, spitefully; “but I never thought Launcelot Darrell would do any good there.”
“How kind it was in you to advise his going, then,” Mrs. Darrell answered, promptly. Then, passing by the astonished Miss Lavinia, she went up to her uncle, and bent over him.
The old man looked up at his niece, but with no glance of recognition in his blue eyes, which had grown pale with age.
“Uncle Maurice,” said Mrs. Darrell, “don’t you know me?”