“Impossible!” broke in the seamstress—“impossible!”
“Nonsense!” said Lady Coxe.
“You will ruin Constance, Mélanie,” retorted Florence.
“Mademoiselle Constance will marry a rich man, and think nothing of the trifles she spends now,” responded Mélanie, somewhat tartly.
“You know what to make,” said Lady Coxe, in a voice that admitted of no reply.
With an obsequious courtesy Mélanie left the room, and Constance, retiring to her own chamber, threw herself on her bed and wept bitterly.
CHAPTER XI.
It was dusk when Mélanie left the house—that dangerous summer dusk, when that is seen which you wish concealed, but when you can with difficulty perceive what you wish to discover.
Mélanie wended her way towards Grosvenor Street, where she resided. As she reached the corner of the Square, however, she stopped at the corner of Charles Street, under a gas-lamp.
She did not wait many minutes when a Clarence stopped at the crossing.