“Mrs. Macartney—where did you meet her?”
“In Paris.”
“She is Irish, I judge by her brogue.”
“Oh yes,” said Vivienne mischievously; “one would know by her tongue that she is Irish, just as one would know by yours that you are Canadian.”
Mrs. Colonibel cast down her eyes. Vivienne had noticed her affected manner of speech, and realized that she shared in the ambition of many of her women friends in Halifax who strove to catch the accent of the English within their gates in order that they too might be taken for English people rather than Canadians.
Presently she went on with a slight sneer. “Mrs. Macartney—an Irish woman—no relation I suppose to Captain Macartney, of the Ninetieth, who was stationed here five years ago?”
“She is his stepmother.”
“His stepmother!” and Mrs. Colonibel raised her voice to such a pitch that Colonel Armour and his sons broke off their discussion, and Judy exclaimed in peevish surprise, “What is the matter with you, mamma?”
Mrs. Colonibel paid no attention to any of them but Vivienne. “His stepmother, did you say?” she repeated, fixing the girl with angry eyes.
“I did,” replied Vivienne calmly.