The word so applied half chokes her.
"We dislike public demonstrations of affection, both of us," rejoins the other, coldly displeased; "we leave those to servants and savages."
A footman enters with tea in handleless red dragon cups, costly as age, brittleness, and ingenious ugliness can make them.
Esther leans back in her chair, idle, staring vacantly at the pane, blurred with big rain-drops.
After a pause, "You have not congratulated me, Miss Craven," Constance says, sipping her tea delicately; her madonna smile relaxing the severely correct lines of her Greek mouth.
Esther gives a great start. "I? Oh, I beg your pardon! I—I forgot; I—I—I congratulate you!"
"I was just going to write and tell you the news," says Constance, graciously—"I thought it might interest you, as you had been with us so lately, and seen the whole thing going on—when we heard of your brother's sudden death."
Esther rises abruptly, and walks to the window, with that painful hatred in her heart towards Miss Blessington that we feel towards those who lightly name our sacred dead to us.
"Was he your only brother, my dear?" inquires Mrs. Blessington, with languid interest.
"Yes."