The slender arms tightened their caress, the pretty little brown face pressed itself against Angela’s pale, cold cheek.
“For my sake, sweetheart, say thou wilt have him. I will go to see thee every day.”
“I have been here for months and you have not come, though I begged you in a dozen letters.”
“I have been kept at my book and my dancing lessons. Mademoiselle told her ladyship that I was a monster of ignorance. I have been treated shamefully. I could not have come to-day had my lady been at home; but I would not brook a hireling’s dictation. Voyons, p’tite tante, tu seras miladi Warner. Dis, dis, que je te fasse mourir de baisers.”
She was almost stifling her aunt with kisses in the intervals of her eager speech.
“The last word has been spoken, Papillon. I have sent him away—and it was not the first time. I had refused him before. I cannot call him back.”
“But he shall come without calling. He is your adoring slave,” cried Henriette, leaping up from the stone bench, and clapping her hands in an ecstasy. “He will need no calling. Dearest, dearest, most exquisite, delectable auntie! I am so happy! And my mother will be content. And no one shall ever say you are my father’s slave.”
“Henriette, if you repeat that odious phrase I shall hate you!”
“Now you are angry. God, what a frown! I will repeat no word that angers you. My Lady Warner—sweet Lady Warner. I vow ’tis a prettier name than Revel or Fareham.”
“You are mad, Henriette! I have promised nothing.”