Willie flushed.
“I beg pardon,” he said gruffly. “I only repeated what I heard.”
“My dear fellow, no harm’s done,” cried Charlie. “Who was the fool?”
“Well—in fact—my father.”
The situation was awkward, but they wisely eluded it by laughter. But a thought struck Charlie.
“I say, did your father state it as a fact?”
“Oh no; but as a certainty, you know.”
“When?”
“Last night at supper.”
Charlie’s brow clouded. Miss B—that is, Agatha, was certain to have been at supper. However, all that could be put right in the evening—that one blessed evening left to him. He looked at Willie and opened his mouth to speak; but he shut it again. It did not seem to him that he could question Willie Prime about the lady. She had chosen to tell him nothing, and her will was his law. But he was yearning to know what she was and how she came there. He refrained; and this time virtue really had a reward beyond itself, for Willie would blithely have told him that she was a dressmaker (he called Nettie, however, the manager of a Court modiste’s business), and that would not have pleased Charlie.