“You know, Lileth, I think,—no, I’m pretty sure you do,—that I’d have gone a ‘broker,’”—the black eyes flash a rebuke at him for the slang he presumes to use before her. “Oh, you know what I mean. I’d have had to have filed in ’85 if it hadn’t been for Dr. Dyesart turning up trumps and lending me some of the ready. Well, when the doctor died he held promissory notes of mine for nearly £20,000. D’you know, niece, why he lent me the money?”
After a short pause the speaker continued, “But I don’t know why I should tell you. Likely enough I’ll be sorry for it to-morrow.”
“If you think I can advise you, uncle, the more I know about the matter the easier can I come to a decision. That is your excuse for telling me and mine for listening to what would otherwise not interest me.”
DINA’S FLOGGING.
“Well, I suppose that’s logic, Lileth. At any rate, Dr. Dyesart, I may tell you, was once engaged to be married to my late wife, to the mother of Glory and Georgie.”
“Indeed, uncle, and how long is it since poor Aunt Mary was engaged to him?”
“Don’t exactly know. I never saw Dyesart till about five years ago—two years after the death of my poor old wom——, of your aunt.” The speaker hastily corrects his lapsus linguæ, glancing at his niece meanwhile, and continues:—
“Dyesart comes here. Glory and little George,—Lord, what I’d give to find out what’s become of my little George,” and a tear moistens the inflamed orbits of Mr. Giles,—“Glory was playing with George on the verandah here. The doctor speaks to them, and was telling Glory he was an old friend of her mother’s when I arrived on the scene. ‘My name’s Dyesart,’ said he; ‘let me speak to you in private. I had the honour of knowing the late Mrs. Giles, your wife.’”
Miss Mundella’s chair ceases rocking, and that lady’s eyes watch her uncle’s lips.