“I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. Why? Because he knew that when these two young people left, the island would become intolerable. “Idiot!” She raged inwardly while she walked along with that air of self-contained serenity that is proper to a young lady of nearly two-and-twenty under the eye of the world. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks.
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