“No, my dear,” he answered, “I never said ’twas.” Then he put his two big knotted yellow hands one on each knee, and looked at her mercilessly. “Think I’ll take my payment now, or else the di’monds,” he said, with a vile chuckle.
She felt his odious grasp on her bare arms and his loathsome breath on her cheek.
“Don’t cry out, my beauty, or you’ll lose your di’monds,” he said, with his lips on her shell-like ear. “You’ve got to be fond of Billy now!”
CHAPTER XXVI.
On the morrow, at the appointed hour, the real Otterbourne jewels were consigned to the representatives of the Otterbourne bankers, and Hurstmanceaux, like all kind-hearted persons, now that he had got his own way, felt sorry he had been obliged to enforce it, especially as he heard that his sister was unwell, and could see no one. “Poor little Sourisette,” he thought remorsefully. “Perhaps I am too hard on her. She had a beast of a husband. She is more to be pitied than blamed.”
Always ready to forgive, he called in Stanhope Street more than once, but she refused to see him. The children told him she was unwell and invisible.
Boo came flying down the staircase between the palms and pointsettias in all the glee which to be the bearer of an unpleasant message naturally afforded her.
“Mammy says she won’t see you ever any more, uncle Ronald,” said this miniature woman, with much contemptuous dignity. “She would like, if you please, that you shouldn’t speak to her even in the street.”
Boo felt very important, standing in the middle of the hall, in her crape frock, with her black silk legs, and her golden cascade of hair on her shoulders, as she delivered herself of this message, and pursed up her lips like two red geranium buds.
“Tell your mother that her desires shall be obeyed,” said Hurstmanceaux, and he turned and went out, followed by the saucy echoes of Boo’s triumphant laugh.