"Nor I. I begin almost to despair. Au revoir."
Meanwhile, indoors, Mr. Castlemaine had gone up to his room again, and Flora in the red parlour was making herself disagreeable as usual. The young lady's insistence that Marie should stay to tea had met with no response, and she was sulky in consequence.
For some little time she relieved herself by kicking her feet about, throwing down the fire-irons, and giving shakes to the table to disturb Ethel. By-and-by, when it grew dusk, and Mrs. Castlemaine had to hold her book very close to her eyes and Ethel to put up her drawing, the young lady saw a larger field for annoyance. Advancing to the piano, she brought both her hands down on the keys with her whole might. The result was a crash that might have aroused the seven sleepers.
"How dare you, Flora?" exclaimed Ethel. "Don't you know the piano was tuned this week?"
A derisive laugh: and another crash.
"Mamma, will you speak to her?"
Crash the third. Mrs. Castlemaine, absorbed by her book of romance, took no notice whatever.
"Do you think I will have my piano served in that way and the wires broken?" cried Ethel, starting up. "What a dreadful child you are!"
A tussle--for the young lass was strong, and was leaning with her whole weight and her two arms on the keys--and then Ethel succeeded in shutting and locking it. It was Ethel's own piano: a present to her from Mr. Castlemaine, and a beautiful instrument. Mademoiselle la méchante turned to the table, took up Ethel's drawing-book and began rumpling the leaves.
"Oh, mamma, mamma, why do you not speak to her?" cried Ethel, in distress, as she tried to get possession of the book, and failed. "Mamma!"