“Yes, I quite understand,” said Mornice.
“Girls should be made to look after themselves.”
Eliphalet cut in with “I think all that is necessary has been said.”
Blanche breathed desperately through her nose. She had lost ground, and saw no hope of regaining it. As a last cast—a final appeal to the emotions, she volunteered to faint.
“I’m going off!” she cried. “Quick—brandy!” Her faltering gestures indicated the cellarette very concisely.
Eliphalet poured a measure into a convenient glass, and she gulped at it greedily.
Then the faint—an unconvincing affair of eyelid work and hand-twitching—took place. From a kind of innate chivalry they waited until such a time as she thought fit to recover.
“We will say good-bye, Blanche,” said Eliphalet. “Your daughter and I have our packing to do. Is there anything else you wish to say to her?”
“No, there isn’t,” came the uncompromising reply.
“Good-bye, then.”