“Nothing, sir. It’s a tip-top heart; in first-class working condition.”
“What’s wrong, then—what’s wrong? Nothing but nerves and nonsense. If I were a young man and my fiancée didn’t care enough about me to face a bit of discomfort, I’d—I’d comfort myself with the first nice girl that would! If you let him go off to India alone, young lady, you’ll have yourself to thank if you are left in the lurch.”
Juliet took out her handkerchief and pretended to cry. It was a comfort to be able to hide one’s face, and besides, just between herself and the handkerchief there was a tear. She would be left in the lurch, and, oh, my goodness, how dull it would be!
From the end of the room sounded three separate gasps of consternation.
“Leave heroine, uncle! It’s my affair. Clare, don’t cry!”
“He doesn’t mean it, dear; he doesn’t mean it. Antony never would.”
“Kiss her, you stupid fellow, kiss her! What’s the use of glowering there?”
Then, in the midst of a thrilling silence, Juliet felt strong arms enfold her, felt the sweep of a moustache against her cheek. It was the first, the very first time in the course of her twenty-six years that any man but a blood relation had offered her a caress, and—she liked the sensation! She felt a horrible, horrible inclination to abandon herself to that strong support; to lift her own lips to meet his. The rebound from the temptation gave energy to the gesture with which she pushed him away and leaped, flaming, to her feet.
“It’s my own heart, and I know best what it can stand! And—and—there are snakes—and rats—and insects, crawly-creepy things dropping from the ceilings! He can have anyone he likes... I don’t care... I don’t want him. I’ll stay at home!” She dashed wildly from the room.
Antony and his aunt stared blankly at each other. The Squire chuckled complacently and rubbed his hands.