“Evil communications,” said Constance, with a laugh. “I have done her harm already.”
Frances felt that her sister’s voice threw a new irritation into her mood. “I am not like myself,” she said, “because I know something is going to happen to me, and I don’t know what it is. Papa, I don’t want to be selfish, but let me know, please, only let me know what it is.”
“It is only that mamma has sent for you,” said Constance, lightly; “that is all. It is nothing so very dreadful. Now do let us have our breakfast in peace.”
“Is that true, papa?” Frances said.
“My dear little girl—I had meant to explain it all—to tell you—and I have been so silly as to put off. Your sister does not understand how we have lived together, Frances, you and I.”
“Am I to go, papa?”
He made a gesture of despair. “I don’t know what to do. I have given my promise. It is as bad for me as for you, Frances. But what am I to do?”
“I suppose,” said Constance, who had helped herself very tranquilly from the dish which Domenico had been holding unobserved at his master’s elbow, “that there is no law that could make you part with her, if you don’t wish to. Promises are all very well with strangers; but they are never kept—are they?—between husband and wife. The father has all the right on his side, and you are not obliged to give either of us up. What a blessing,” she cried suddenly, “to have servants who don’t understand! That was why I said, don’t talk of it till after breakfast. But it does not at all matter. It is as good as if he were deaf and dumb. Papa, you need not give her up unless you like.”
Waring looked at his daughter with mingled attention and anger. The suggestion was detestable, but yet——
“And then,” she went on, “there is another thing. It might have been all very well when we were children; but now we are of an age to judge for ourselves. At eighteen, you can choose which you will stay with. Oh, younger than that. There have been several trials in the papers—no one can force Frances to go anywhere she does not like, at her age.”