"But you must have more care than mine, my child; at least you must have other care. You must have some lady friend, to look after you as I cannot do. I am going to put you under your aunt's protection."
Rotha's pencil fell from her hand and she raised her head now.
"My aunt?" she repeated.
"Yes. Your mother's sister; Mrs. Busby. You knew you had an aunt in the city?"
Rotha disregarded the question. She left her seat and came and stood before the lounge, in the attitude of a young tragedy queen; her hands interlocked before her, her face pale, and not only pale but spotted with colour, in a way that shewed a startling interruption of the ordinary even currents of the blood.
"O Mr. Digby," she cried, "not her! not her! Do not give me up to her!"
"Why not?" he asked gently.
"She is not good. She is not a good woman. I don't like her. I can't bear the thought of her. I don't want to have anything to do with her. Please, keep me from her! O Mr. Digby, don't let her have me!" These words came out in a stream.
"My dear Rotha, is this reasonable? What cause have you to dislike your aunt?"
"Because she wasn't good to mother—she didn't love her—she wasn't kind to her. She is not a good woman. She wouldn't like me. I don't like her dreadfully, Mr. Digby!"