“I haven’t decided about the ending yet,” said she.
“If you’re intent is to be tragical—which is the fashion—you’ll do as you stand,” said I.
“Yes,” she answered slowly, “if I’m tragical I shall do as I stand.”
There was another pause, and rather a long one; the wheels of the carriage were audible on the gravel of the front drive. Miss Liston stood up. I rose and held out my hand.
“Of course,” said Miss Liston, still intent on her novel, “I could—” She stopped again, and looked apprehensively at me. My face, I believe, expressed nothing more than polite attention and friendly interest.
“Of course,” she began again, “the shallow girl—his wife—might—might die, Mr. Wynne.”
“In novels,” said I, with a smile, “while there’s death there’s hope.”
“Yes, in novels,” she answered, giving me her hand.
The poor little woman was very unhappy. Unwisely, I dare say, I pressed, her hand. It was enough; the tears leapt to her eyes; she gave my great fist a hurried squeeze. I have seldom been more touched by any thanks, however warm or eloquent, and hurried away.
I have read the novel. It came out a little while ago. The man finds out after the marriage; the shallow girl dies un regretted (she turns out as badly as possible); the real love comes, and all ends joyfully. It is simple story, prettily told in its little way, and the scene of the reunion is written with genuine feeling—nay, with a touch of real passion. But then Sir Gilbert Chillington never meets Miss Liston now. And Lady Chillington not only behaves with her customary propriety, but is in the enjoyment of most excellent health and spirits.