The Haute Noblesse. George Manville Fenn
is she not, Mr. Leslie?”
“Miss Vine? Yes: you must be very proud of her,” said the young man, without moving a muscle.
“We are; we are indeed, Mr. Leslie; but I am afraid I am detaining you.”
“I will not call it detaining me, Miss Marguerite,” said Leslie, mockingly assuming a courtly manner in accord with that of his tormentor. “The Scotch had so much intercourse with the French years ago that they gave us a little polish, and I hope we have some trace of the old politeness left.”
He smiled and bowed before passing on, and Aunt Marguerite watched him till he disappeared down the zig-zag path, her own smile remaining so fixed that it seemed to be frozen on her lip, the more so that it was a cold, cruel-looking smile, verging on the malignant as she said softly—“That will be something for you to think about, Mr. Duncan Leslie; and you shall find I am not a woman to be despised.”
“It is curious,” said the object of her thoughts, as he walked slowly down the cliff path. “Surely there was never a family before whose various members were so different in their ways. De Ligny, de Ligny? Who is de Ligny? Well,” he added with a sigh, “I ought to thank Heaven that the name is not Pradelle.”
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