‘Oh, no,’ said the curate, and ‘Oh no,’ cried Elly, jumping up. ‘I’ve seen them together, and she looked at him as if she were not the least fond of him; so that couldn’t be.’
‘She can’t be very fond of him if she has never come to see him for ten years.’
‘No,’ said the curate, ‘old Sandford was very particular to say his daughter; therefore she must be John’s aunt, I suppose. And aunts are not always, not necessarily, fond of their——’
‘Do you hear that, Aunt Mary?’ cried Elly, placing herself in the full light of the fire with the indifference of her age to scorched cheeks and strained eyes.
‘Few people,’ said Mr. Cattley, with subdued enthusiasm, ‘are so happy, Elly, as the boys and you.’
‘My dear, it is quite true that I am not at all necessarily fond of you—(you will make digressions from our subject). Get up this moment, and put aside your book till Joseph brings the lamp. Now, Elly, do what I tell you. You will ruin your eyes, and as for your complexion——’
‘Mr. Cattley, you are always flattering Aunt Mary. She is a tyrant. She is as cruel as Nero. She does not care for us at all.’
‘Hush—don’t blaspheme,’ Mr. Cattley said.
‘I wish I had been here,’ Mrs. Egerton resumed, making an end of the interruption, ‘to see the dear little woman herself before the end came. How sad it is that one cannot be away for two or three weeks without the chance of finding some familiar face gone before one comes back. No doubt she would have told me—indeed one would naturally have asked if there was anyone she would like to have sent for, or wanted to see. And the daughter did not arrive till she was gone? How sad it all is. I will go there to-morrow. Mr. Sandford, of course, knew I was away.’
‘Everyone knows when you are away. It makes a difference in the very atmosphere,’ the curate said.