“You’re an angel!” he cried.

Miss Featherstone looked startled and annoyed.

Colonel Pinckney, with much self-possession, recovered himself immediately.  “We all know it,” he continued jestingly—­“Mr. Brown, the children, servants and all; but, in spite of this, you shall not be imposed upon.  Now, I wish to give you a resume of Mrs. Pinckney’s life—­”

“Oh, Colonel Pinckney! when we are under her roof!”

“It is a shelter bought with my father’s money,” he returned.  “But you must and shall hear me:  it is necessary.  She is the incarnation of selfishness:  in a young person it could go no further.  One can pardon anything rather than selfishness.  She entirely exhausted our charity during poor Harry’s long illness.  She travelled with every comfort that money could give:  she had her maid, Harry had his man, the children were left with my mother.  One winter they went to Nassau, the next to the south of France:  from both places she wrote such despairing letters that my poor old father and mother were nearly beside themselves.  It was like the explosion of a bomb-shell in the household when a letter came from Virginia.  Sometimes I used to read and suppress them:  they were filled with shrieks and lamentations.  Harry was in a rapid decline; the mental torture was more than she could bear; some one must come immediately out to her, etc.  The first winter my eldest brother went, to the serious injury of his business:  he is a lawyer.  I went when they were in Europe, my wound not yet healed.  By George!  Harry looked in better health than I:  every one thought I was the invalid.  The doctor was called in immediately, who said I had endangered my life by the expedition.  I found out my lady had been to balls and on excursions all the time she was writing those harrowing letters.”

“Is it possible,” said Miss Featherstone, “that you think Mrs. Pinckney is false—­that she deliberately tells untruths?”

“Not a bit of it,” interrupted Colonel Pinckney.  “She loves to complain and make herself an object of sympathy.  Poor Harry, of course, had a constant cough, and whenever he took cold all his distressing symptoms were aggravated:  then she’d write her letters.  By the time they were received he would be pretty well again.  You can see for yourself what she is:  she sends for Doctor Harris, has Adele sleep on a mattress on the floor in her room, leaving little Harry to keep you awake all night—­a fine preparation for the drudgery of the next day—­then toward evening she rises, makes a beautiful toilette, and drives with me several miles to a dinner-party.  Not a month ago, you remember, this occurred when we went to Judge Lawrence’s.  To go back to my poor brother:  let me tell you what happened from her crying wolf so often.  The next winter they went to St. Augustine:  we live in Virginia, you know.  A few weeks after their arrival the alarming letters began and continued to appear.