There came a knock to the door--
Oh, Meg! Was it she? No; old Wyat whispered Madame something about her
room.
So Madame re-entered, with a little silver tray and flagon in her hands,
and a glass. Nothing came from Uncle Silas in ungentlemanlike fashion.
'Drink, Maud,' said Madame, raising the cover, and evidently enjoying the
fragrant steam.
I could not. I might have done so had I been able to swallow anything--for
I was too distracted to think of Meg's warning.
Madame suddenly recollected her mistake of that evening, and tried the
door; but it was duly locked. She took the key from her pocket and placed
it in her breast.
'You weel 'av these rooms to yourself, ma chere. I shall sleep downstairs
to-night.'
She poured out some of the hot claret into the glass abstractedly, and
drank it off.
''Tis very good--I drank without theenk. Bote 'tis very good. Why don't you
drink some?'
'I could not', I repeated. And Madame boldly helped herself.
'Vary polite, certally, to Madame was it to send nothing at all for _hair_'
(so she pronounced 'her'); 'bote is all same thing.' And so she ran on in
her tipsy vein, which was loud and sarcastic, with a fierce laugh now and
then.
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