“So she is my husband’s niece? What a fatality!” Pansy murmured to herself, fighting hard against the weakness and faintness stealing over her. “And Norman Wylde has not married her yet,” her thoughts ran on, with a sort of bitter triumph.
She sat silent, crushing the black-bordered sheet in her hands, her heart beating slowly and heavily in her breast, a chill presentiment of evil stealing over her mind.
“Is it possible that I shall have to come in contact again with that proud, cruel girl? Oh, if I had only known this I should never have married Colonel Falconer,” she thought bitterly.
Colonel Falconer turned around suddenly from the window.
“Well, my dear, what do you think of my niece’s letter?” he asked.
Pansy’s face flamed and her eyes flashed.
“I think it is impertinent, selfish, and heartless,” she answered spiritedly.
He sighed, for that was his own impression of the letter, although he hated to acknowledge it, even to himself. What hurt him most was her half-contemptuous allusions to his wife, and the fact that she had disdained to send a single kindly message to the woman who was, by marriage, at least, her near relative.
“Juliette is a spoiled child. She has been pampered and indulged until she considers no one but herself,” he said uneasily.
“That is easy to be seen,” she answered, with a touch of scorn.