“True,” said Clara, in instant acquiescence. “You are right.”
But when the proposed movement of Ellison and his wife became known, her relatives had a good deal to say about it. George Deville, the oldest brother, whose feelings now led him to oppose any thing that he thought originated with Alfred, pronounced it as preposterous.
“Why don’t Ellison go himself?” said he. “What does he expect to gain by dragging Clara out there?”
“You surely are not going off to Ohio on such an expedition,” was his language to his sister.
“Yes,” she replied to him, mildly, “I am going.”
“What folly!” he exclaimed.
“George,” said Clara, in a firm, dignified manner, “I must beg of you not to interfere in any way between my husband and myself. In his judgment I am now to confide, and I do it fully. We think it best to go and see personally after our own interests.”
“But Clara—”
“Pardon me, George,” interrupted the sister, “but I must insist on your changing the subject.”
Deville became angry at this, and as he turned to go away, said something about her being beggared by her “husband’s fooleries,” in less than five years.