‘He looks as if he were displeased,’ she said to Ombra, when her daughter came near her, and she could indulge herself in a moment’s confidence.
‘What does it matter how he looks?’ said Ombra, who herself looked miserable enough.
‘My darling, it is for poor Kate’s sake.’
‘Oh! Kate!—always Kate! I am tired of Kate!’ said Ombra, sinking down listlessly upon a seat. She had the look of being tired of all the rest of the world. Her mother whispered to her, in a tone of alarm, to bestir herself, to try to exert herself, and entertain their guests.
‘People are asking me what is the matter with you already,’ said poor Mrs. Anderson, distracted with these conflicting cares.
‘Tell them it is temper that is the matter,’ said poor Ombra. And then she rose, and made a poor attempt once more to be gay.
This, however, was not long necessary, for Kate came back, flushed, and in wild spirits, announcing that her uncle had gone, and took the whole burden of the entertainment on her own shoulders. Even this, though it was a relief to her, Ombra felt as an injury. She resented Kate’s assumption of the first place; she resented the wistful looks which her cousin directed to herself, and all her caressing words and ways.
‘Dear Ombra, go and rest, and I will look after these tiresome people,’ Kate said, putting her arm round her.
‘I don’t want to rest—pray take no notice of me—let me alone!’ cried Ombra. It was temper—certainly it was temper—nothing more.
‘But don’t think you have got rid of him, auntie, dear,’ whispered Kate, in Mrs. Anderson’s ear. ‘He says he is coming back to-night, when all these people are gone—or if not to-night, at least to-morrow morning—to have some serious talk. Let us keep everybody as late as possible, and balk him for to-night.’