What will become of her, Vera Nevill, if Mrs. Hazeldine comes in
presently and finds these treasures lying in a thousand pieces upon the
floor? And yet this is what she is looking forward to, as only too
probable a catastrophe.
Vera feels much as must have felt the owner of the proverbial bull
in the crockery shop--terror mingled with an overpowering sense of
responsibility. All personal considerations are well-nigh merged in
the realization of the danger which menaces her hostess' property.
"Monsieur D'Arblet, I must implore you to calm yourself," she says,
desperately.
"And how, mademoiselle, I ask you, am I to be calm when you speak of
shattering the hopes of my life?" cries the vicomte, who is dancing about
frantically backwards and forwards, in a clear space of three square
yards, between the different pieces of furniture by which he is
surrounded, all equally fragile, and equally loaded with destructible
objects.
"_Pray_ be careful, Monsieur D'Arblet, your sleeve nearly caught then in
the handle of that Chelsea basket," cries Vera, in anguish.
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