The pale girl went in, tossed her hat and veil in a corner, and, seizing a handful of fruit, threw herself down on the lounge.
"When you take off those trappings, I will speak to you," said Miss Gastonguay to her remaining guest, then, turning her back, she stared at her empty hearth.
The old woman sank into a chair, detached her bonnet strings and white wig, took off her shawl, then, getting up, stepped out of her widespreading gown.
Miss Gastonguay looked around. Her first sensation was not one of bitter shame and disgrace, but rather one of dull surprise. Was that old man her brother?
He was doubled up in a paroxysm of coughing. When he recovered himself, and the colour faded from his face, he asked, peevishly, "Will you get me something hot?"
"Louis," she said, like one in a dream, "Louis, Louis."
"Yes, Louis,—and you are Jane. Good Heavens! Do I look as old as you do?"
"And yesterday we were children," she said, with a gesture of unspeakable despair. Her misery of expectation and sickening apprehension was all gone. The trivial thought of his personal appearance drove all deeper emotion from her mind. And in spite of the change, how natural it seemed to have him here. How natural to take up her old role of indulgent sister.
"Lie here," she said, arranging the pillows on a sofa, "and what shall I bring you?"
"Brandy, brandy—and hot water. Be quick."