"Heaven forbid it my dear, Hubert. From a child I always had a holy horror of blue stockings, and when I looked upon their coarse masculine faces I always experienced a feeling of disgust that I must confess increased with the years."
"And you have met many I presume."
"I merely refer to the works of the photographer or the artist, such, as you see on the vignette of their works. I am sure that they are ugly enough to frighten any sensitive child."
"But Marguerite is not one of that class," said the young man, lazily readjusting a cushion that had slipped out beneath his head.
"She is an exception so far as appearance is concerned, but that does not excuse her," said Mrs. Verne, with a haughty toss of the head, then suddenly changing her voice to a very tender and confidential tone, exclaimed, "My dear Hubert, I am going to give you a little bit of advice, and I know you will receive it kindly, as you value my child's happiness. I wish you to have a warm interest in everything that tends to her comfort; but above all things, do not encourage in her that desire to be in seclusion, and to mope and groan over imaginary grievances. It is, I am sorry to say, a failing which she has inherited from her father; and though I do not wish to speak disparagingly of my dear husband, I must say that he is in many respects a very peculiar man. It is, indeed, very discouraging for a woman to find that she has married a man who takes not the least interest in society and prefers to remain, night after night shut up in his own rooms, with no companion but a musty old ledger and a filthy pipe. Ugh! the very thought make me sick."
As Mrs. Verne's speech was accompanied by expressions of contempt and disgust, the impression made upon Hubert Tracy was not of the most flattering kind. He merely smiled, but gave no expression to his thoughts. They were not what would please his mother-in-law elect, and he had enough policy to conceal them.
And now for a second scene. The carriage had rolled away and Mrs. Verne had ascended the lofty stairway. As she stood in the corridor to throw aside the heavy wrap that enfolded her, she heard a confused din of voices. It startled her and caused her heart to beat violently.
"What a fool I am to get in such a state for nothing," but just as the last word was uttered, a servant opened the door leading from the inner hall. It was Marguerite's waiting maid.
The girl's face spoke sad news.
"In heaven's name what is the matter, Maria?" cried Mrs. Verne, thinking that a murder had taken place in their midst.