She hid her face in the keyboard and sobbed violently.
“Well, really!” said he.
“Hysterical!” said the aunt, still smiling. “I don’t wonder, after the conversation we have been having, and the things we have been hearing! Fibby’s had grand new London friends here—to put her out of love with us all. We’re all too plain and common for Fibby now!”
Still smiling—was a smile ever so denuded of grace and benevolence?—she gathered up her crochet and left the room. Mrs. Elles then rose from the piano, and, dabbing her handkerchief to her eyes, made a step in the direction of the door. But she changed her mind and stood still by the mantelpiece with the figure half averted.
“I’m sure I beg all your pardons,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “Oh, damn! where’s the paper?” said Mortimer Elles. Securing it, and sinking into an arm-chair with a great, puffing breath, he hid his face behind the broad white sheet. His coat tails caught the Oriental cloth on a small table near him and dragged it nearly off. Mrs. Elles rushed forward and saved one of the many pieces of china that rested on it from destruction.
“Throw the beastly thing on the fire!” he growled out, without looking up. “This house is far too full.”
A gong sounded.
“I am going up to dress for dinner,” she said, aggressively, standing in front of him. “Shan’t you, Mortimer?”
“There’s nobody coming, is there?”
“No—unfortunately—but I like to dress.”