“That wretched Irish woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Colonibel; “I wish that she had been born without a tongue.”
“Don’t be abusive and vulgar, Flora. Once you get that reputation there isn’t a man in Halifax that will marry you. You know your ambition is to get a husband; but you’re playing a very bad game just now, a very bad one.”
At this bit of information, of which his victim was only too well assured by her own inner consciousness, she began to shed tears of anger and mortification.
“Don’t cry,” said Camperdown soothingly, drawing up a chair and sitting astride it within easy reach of the box of sweetmeats on her lap, “and don’t bite your handkerchief.”
She would have given the world to be alone, but she was obliged to sit still, answering his questions and watching him coolly eat her sweets.
“Confide in me, Flora,” he said kindly; “I’m the best friend you have. Tell me just how you feel toward Miss Delavigne.”
“I hate her,” she said, striking her teeth together and tearing her handkerchief to shreds. “You’ve no idea how I hate her, Brian,” and she burst into violent sobbing.
She had thrown off all disguise, as indeed she was often in the habit of doing with him, for he understood her so well that she never could deceive him and knew that she gained nothing by attempting to do so.
“That’s right,” he said, stripping the paper off a caramel and transferring it to his cheek. “Unburden your conscience; you’ll feel better. We’ll start from that. You hate her. People will hate each other; you can’t help it. Now let us consider the subject without any appeal to higher motives, which would only be an embarrassment in your case, Flora. You can’t help hating her; do you hate yourself?”
“No,” indignantly, “you know I don’t.”