And now about these letters: do you care how they are worded?"
"I don't seem to care about anything," listlessly answered the young man.
"As to the letters, I think I'd rather write them myself, Lady Kirton."
"Indeed you shall not have any trouble of that sort to-day. _I'll_ write
the letters, and you may indulge yourself in doing nothing."
He yielded in his unstable nature. She spoke of business letters, and it
was better that he should write them; he wished to write them; but she
carried her point, and his will yielded to hers. Would it be a type of
the future?--would he yield to her in other things in defiance of his
better judgment? Alas! alas!
She picked up her skirts and left him, and went sailing upstairs to her
daughter's room. Maude was sitting shivering in a shawl, though the day
was hot.
"I've paved the way," nodded the old woman, in meaning tones. "And
there's one fortunate thing about Val: he is so truthful himself, one may
take him in with his eyes open."
Maude turned _her_ eyes upon her mother: very languid and unspeculative
eyes just then.
"I gave him a hint, Maude, that you had been unable to bring yourself to
like Hartledon, but had fixed your mind on a younger son. Later, we'll
let him suspect who the younger son was."
The words aroused Maude; she started up and stood staring at her mother,
her eyes dilating with a sort of horror; her pale cheeks slowly turning
crimson.
Pages:
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194