What pretty cups! My word, we are dainty! I suppose it was Esther
bought them for you?"
Henry detected the little trap and smiled. No, it hadn't been Esther.
"No? Someone else then? eh! I think I can guess her name. It was mean of
you not to tell me about her, Henry. I hear she's called Angel, and that
she looks like one. I wish I could have seen her before I went away."
"Going away, Myrtilla? why, where? I've heard nothing of it. Tell me
about it."
The atmosphere perceptibly darkened with the thought of Williamson.
"Well!" she said, in the little airy melodious way she had when she was
telling something particularly unhappy about herself--a sort of
harpsichord bravado--"Well, you know, he's taken to fancying himself
seriously ill lately, and the doctors have aided and abetted him; and so
we're going to Davos Platz, or some such health-wilderness--and well,
that's all!"
"And you I suppose are to nurse the--to nurse him?" said Henry,
savagely.
"Hush, lad! It's no use, not a bit! You won't help me that way," she
said, laying her hand kindly on his, and her eyes growing bright with
suppressed tears.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341