"Good gracious, Kate, can't you be quiet!" exclaimed Miss Monk, as the child in her gambols sprang upon the sofa, upsetting the book and its reader's temper. "Go away: you are treading on my flounces. Aunt Emma, why do you persist in having this tiresome little reptile with us after dinner?"
"Because your father will not let her be sent to the nursery," said Mrs. Carradyne.
"She is only as her mother was; as you were, Eliza--always rebellious. Kate, sit down to the piano and play one of your pretty tunes."
"I won't," responded Kate. "Play yourself, Aunt Emma."
Dashing through the open glass doors, Kate began tossing a ball on the broad gravel walk below the terrace. Mrs. Carradyne cautioned her not to break the windows, and turned to the tea-table.
"Don't make the tea yet, Aunt Emma," interrupted Miss Monk, in tones that were quite like a command. "Mr. Grame is coming, and he won't care for cold tea."
Mrs. Carradyne returned to her seat. She thought the opportunity had come to say something to her niece which she had been wanting to say.
"My dear," resumed Mrs. Carradyne with some hesitation, "forgive me if I offer you a word of advice. You have no mother; I pray you to listen to me in her stead. You must change your line of behaviour to Mr. Grame."
Eliza's dark face turned red and haughty. "I do not understand you, Aunt Emma."
"Nay, I think you do understand me, my dear. You have incautiously allowed yourself to fall into--into an undesirable liking for Mr. Grame. An _unseemly_ liking, Eliza."
"Yes; because it has not been sought. Cannot you see, Eliza, how he instinctively recedes from it? how he would repel it were he less the gentleman than he is? Child, I shrink from saying these things to you, but it is needful. You have good sense, Eliza, keen discernment, and you might see for yourself that it is not to you Mr. Grame's love is given--or ever will be."
For once in her life Eliza Monk allowed herself to betray agitation. She opened her trembling lips to speak, but closed them again.
"A moment yet, Eliza. Let us suppose, for argument's sake, that Mr. Grame loved you; that he wished to marry you; you know, my dear, how utterly useless it would be. Your father would not suffer it."