“You are a little mad, but you are a good girl, and I want to be friends with you. You have in you the spirit of a dozen Frank Lavenders.”
“You will never make friends with me by speaking ill of my husband,” said Sheila, with the same proud and indignant look.
“Not when he ill-uses you?”
“He does not ill-use me. What has Mr. Ingram been saying to you?”
The sudden question would certainly have brought about a disclosure if any were to have been made; but Mrs. Lavender assured Sheila that Mr. Ingram had told her nothing, that she had been forming her own conclusions, and that she still doubted that they were right.
“Now sit down and read to me. You will find Marcus Antoninus on the top of those books.”
“Frank is in the drawing-room,” observed Sheila, mildly.
“He can wait,” said the old woman, sharply.
“Yes, but you cannot expect me to keep him waiting,” with a smile which did not conceal her very definite purpose.
“Then ring, and bid him come up. You will soon get rid of those absurd sentiments.”