He leaned against the wall, and stroking his mustache in a hasty and disturbed manner muttered: “You are only a girl, yet you have yourself under better control than most women. Would nothing break you down?”
At that moment the conversation of some ladies standing by a raised, curtained window, opening on the veranda, became clearly audible.
“She’s not proud, neither is she consaited,” they heard in a strident undertone; “I can vouch for that.”
“Oh, no, no, my dear Mrs. Macartney, I did not mean to hint at such a thing,” interposed the low, cutting voice of a lady well-known to Mr. Armour; “I merely said that a little less haughtiness, a little more humility of deportment, would be befitting to such a very young person who has so broad a bar sinister across her escutcheon.”
“Her father was a thief, you know,” chimed in a third hard, vulgar little voice; “a low, miserable thief, who stole money just as meanly as a person taking it out of a till. I don’t believe in smoothing over big offenses and coming down so hard on little ones. The Armours are very good to want to introduce her into society; but I think a girl like that ought to be left in seclusion. I pity Mrs. Colonibel.”
“And it’s me own daughter-in-law I’d like to see her,” said Mrs. Macartney boisterously.
There was a rustling of silk, two swift “Ohs” of ejaculation, two attempted apologies, and then a subdued snorting which told them that the Irishwoman had left her opponents in possession of the field.
Vivienne sank back on her chair, and Armour turned away to hide the anger of his face. She thought that he was about to interfere, and touched him on the sleeve with a murmured, “They are your guests.”
He shook his head impatiently just as the cutting voice went on, “How exceedingly brusque that Irishwoman is; I cannot bear to have her near me.”
“She fancied that she was exploding an important family secret,” said the vulgar little voice, “when all the world knows that the French demoiselle has jilted her stepson.”