“No,” said Lady Brand plaintively, “you know argument is bad for you, Wickham. You become so violent, dear.”
“Besides,” said Ethel Brand, the daughter, in a low and resigned voice, “what’s done can’t be undone.”
“Meaning Elsa?” asked Wickham savagely. I could see that but for my restraining presence as a stranger there was all the inflammable stuff here for a first-class domestic ‘flare-up.’
“What else?” asked Ethel coldly, and meeting her brother’s challenging eyes with a perfectly steady gaze. She was a handsome girl with regular, classical features, and tight lips, as narrow-minded, I imagined, as a mid-Victorian spinster in a cathedral town, and as hard as granite in principle and prejudice.
Wickham weakened, after signs of an explosion of rage. He spoke gently, and revealed a hope to which I think he clung desperately.
“When Elsa comes you will all fall in love with her.”
It was the worst thing he could have said, though he was unconscious of his “gaffe.”
His sister Ethel reddened, and I could see her mouth harden.
“So far, I have remarkably little love for Germans, male or female.”
“I hope we shall behave with Christian charity,” said Lady Brand.