Sara noted these signs of self-abasement (it could be nothing else
where a Wrandall was concerned), and smiled inwardly. The new idol
of the Wrandalls was in love, selfishly, insufferably in love as
things went with all the Wrandalls. They hated selfishly, and so
they loved. Her husband had been their king. But their king was
dead, long live the king! Leslie had put on the family crown,--a
little jauntily, perhaps,--cocked over the eye a bit, so to speak--but
it was there just the same, annoyingly plain to view.
Sara had tried to like him. He had been her friend, the only one she
could claim among them all. And yet, beneath his genial allegiance,
she could detect the air of condescension, the bland attitude of a
superior who defends another's cause for the reason that it gratifies
Nero. She experienced a thrill of malicious joy in contemplating
the fall of Nero. He would bring down his house about his head,
and there would be no Rome to pay the fiddler.
In the train that Tuesday morning, Booth elected to chaff his
friend on the progress of his campaign. They were seated opposite
to each other in the almost empty parlour car.
"Buck up, old chap," he counselled scoffingly. "Don't look so
disconsolate. You're coming out again at the end of the week."
Leslie had been singularly reticent for a matter of ten miles or
more after leaving the little station behind.
Pages:
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171