Emile had wished to write, but she had begged him not to do so,
and for once he had yielded to what he called her "whims."
From the scraps of information she had received from time to time it
appeared that the uncomfortable _menage_ of her kindred had become even
more disorganised. Her father had turned for consolation to the whisky
of his country, her mother spent whole days in bed reading, and weaving
futile dreams of a recovered fortune, and Isobel and Valerie grew taller
and hungrier, and fought and wrangled after the manner of Hooligans.
Lazy and shiftless, they envied Arithelli the life she had chosen, but
had neither the pluck nor the brains necessary to emulate her example.
Emile's manner had troubled her of late, for he had been strangely
bad-tempered and variable in his moods. She had become more or less
accustomed to his eccentricities of behaviour and speech, but this was
something different, indefinable. One day he would be extraordinarily
kind and considerate, the next almost brutal, either hardly speaking at
all, or else finding fault with everything she said and did.
Pages:
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196