"Anything the matter, Miss Clifford?" said he, obsequiously.
"No, sir" (very stiffly).
"Can I be of any service?"
"No, you can not." And then, swifter than any weather-cock ever turned:
"You are a good creature: why should I be rude to you? I ought to be
ashamed of myself. It is that little wretch."
"Not our friend Fitzroy?"
"Why, what other little wretch is there about? We are all Grenadiers and
May-poles in this house except him. Well, let him go. I dare say somebody
else--hum--and Uncle Clifford has told me more than once I ought to look
higher. I couldn't well look lower than five feet nothing. Ha! ha! ha! I
told him so."
"That was cruel."
"Don't scold _me_. I won't be lectured by any of you. Of course it was,
_dear_. Poor little Percy. Oh! oh! oh!"
And after all this thunder there was a little rain, by a law that governs
Atmosphere and Woman impartially.
Seeing her softened, and having his own reasons for wishing to keep
Fitzroy to his duty, Walter begged leave to mediate, if possible, and
asked if she would do him the honor to confide the grievance to him.
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