"Perhaps he is going to sell Arion," she thought, "and that's why the dear thing was 'fey.'"
And then that rebellious spirit of hers arose within her, ready for war.
"No, I would not endure that. I would not part with my father's last gift. I shall be rich seven years hence, if I live so long. I'll do what the young spendthrifts do. I'll go to the Jews. I will not be Captain Winstanley's helot. One slave is enough for him, I should think. He has enslaved poor mamma. Look at her now, poor soul; she sits in bodily fear of him, crumbling her bread with her pretty fingers, shining and sparkling with rings. Poor mamma! it is a bad day for her when fine dresses and handsome jewels cannot make her happy."
It was a miserable dinner. Those three were not wont to be gay when they sat at meat together; but the dinner of to-day was of a gloomier pattern than usual. The strawberries and cherries were carried round solemnly, the Captain filled his glass with claret, Mrs. Winstanley dipped the ends of her fingers into the turquois-coloured glass, and disseminated a faint odour of roses.
"I think I'll go and sit in the garden, Conrad," she said, when she had dried those tapering fingers on her fringed doiley. "It's so warm in the house."
"Do, dear. I'll come and smoke my cigar on the lawn presently," answered the Captain.
"Can't you come at once, love?"
"I've a little bit of business to settle first. I won't be long!"
Mrs. Winstanley kissed her hand to her husband, and left the room, followed by Vixen.
"Violet," she said, when they were outside, "how could you stay out so long? Conrad is dreadfully angry."