"You go to Aunt Hermione," said Lord Lamerton peremptorily. He was losing his temper.
"How long am I to be with her?"
"That depends. Your mother has written to ask her to receive you for six months."
"Six months!" Arminell disengaged herself from her father. "Six months is an eternity. I cannot! I will not submit to this. I shall do something desperate. I detest that old Hermione. Her voice grates on my nerves, her laugh raises my bad passions. I can hardly endure her for six days. Her good nature is imbecility itself, and provokes me; her vanity makes her ridiculous. I cannot, indeed, I will not go to her."
"You must, Armie! It is my wish—it is my command."
"But not for six months. Six weeks is the outside of my endurance."
"Armie, I heartily wish that there were no necessity for parting with you at all, but you have given me and your mother such cause for anxiety, and such pain, that we have concluded together that it is best for you and us to be separated for a while. You, I have said, give me pain, especially now at a time when I am worried by external troubles. I cannot force you to go to your aunt's, nor force you to remain there longer than you choose, but you know my intentions, and they are for your good, and our own relief."
"Am I such an annoyance to you?" asked Arminell, in a subdued tone.
"Of course, with your waywardness, and open defiance of our authority, you are. You have made me—let alone my lady—very unhappy. You have set yourself up to disagree with us at every point, to run counter to all our wishes, and to take up with persons with whom we disapprove of your associating."
