"Very well, dear," said May. "But don't pout and frown like that at his little frightened wife." "Get out!" said Burnett, "and don't be a fool before people." He shook her off as he said this, and strutted towards the door, where he turned with a sneering grin upon his face. "I say," he cried, "I didn't give you any money when you asked me this morning." "No, dear, you didn't. Give me some now, before you go. Don't go out and leave me without." "Not a shilling!" he cried, with an unpleasant cackling laugh. May stood with the pretty smile upon her face, a strange contrast to the pained classic sorrow upon her sister's better-formed features, amid perfect silence, till the front door closed, and Frank Burnett's strutting step was heard on the shingle walk leading to the gate, when a change came over the bright, flower-like countenance, which was convulsed with anger in miniature. "Ugh! Little contemptible wretch!" she exclaimed. "How I do hate you! Claire, I shall end by running away from the little miserable ape, if I don't make up my mind to kill him. Ah!" She ended with an ejaculation full of pain, and turned a wondering, childish look of reproach on her sister, for Claire had crossed to her, and suddenly grasped her wrist. "Silence, May!" she cried. "Oh, don't!" said May, wresting herself free, and stamping her foot like a fretful, angry child. "And if you've come here to do nothing but scold me and find fault, you'd better go." "May--May! Listen to me." "No, I won't. I'll go up to my own room and cry my eyes out. You don't know; you can't imagine what a little wretch he is. I wish you were married to him instead of me." "May!" "I won't listen," cried the foolish little woman, stopping her ears. "You bully me for caring for Sir Harry Payne, who is all that is tender and loving; and I'm tied to that hateful little wretch for life, and he makes my very existence a curse." "May, will you listen?" "I can see you are scolding me, but I can't hear a word you say, and I won't listen. Oh, I do wish you were married to him instead of me." "I wish to heaven I were!" cried Claire solemnly. "What?" cried May, the stopping of whose ears seemed now to be very ineffective. "You wish you were married to the little mean-spirited, insignificant wretch?" "Yes," said Claire excitedly, "for then you would be free." "What do you mean by that, Claire?" "Did you not tell me that Louis Gravani was dead?" "Yes, of course I did." "Why did you tell me that?" "Because he went to Rome or Florence--I am not sure which--and caught a fever and died." "Are you sure?" "Well, dear, he never wrote and told me he was dead, of course," said May with a little laugh, "but he told me he had caught the fever, and he never wrote to me any more, so, of course, he died." "And, without knowing for certain, you married Frank Burnett?"