“He was actually rude, insulting,” said Ella. “He seemed to think I was nothing and nobody, quite forgetting I was your daughter, and—”
“Insufferable, purse-proud old ruffian he must be,” interjected her father.
Ella’s eyes danced.
“Yes, papa—that’s just what it is,” she said, “He could not have been less—respectful,” she added with a little hesitation, “if I had really been a penniless pauper, instead of having a family and home of my own.”
Colonel St Quentin glanced at Madelene. He was on the point of speaking, but a sign from her, imperceptible to Ella, restrained him. He contented himself with a sigh. Ella imagined it to be one of sympathy with her wrongs, and her spirits rose—“penniless pauper,” had been very telling, she said to herself.
“And so—and so, you and your aunt thought it best for you to come away,” he said. “Well, well, it is a pity things could not have gone on smoothly a little longer, considering how many years you have been with her and how good she has always shown herself to you. In any case she surely might have written or telegraphed—I certainly think she might have considered us a little as well as old Burton. Of course she sent a servant with you.”
“No, no,” said Ella, hesitatingly. “I came alone.”
Colonel St Quentin’s face darkened.
“She let you—a child like you, travel here alone!” he exclaimed. “Upon my word, Madelene—you knew this?” he added, turning to her.
Madelene looked very uneasy.