Maggie remained calm and benevolent. After a pause she said—
“You see—their point is that later on he mayn’t be able to make a will.”
“Look here,” he questioned amicably, meeting her eyes, “what do you think? What do you think yourself?”
“Oh!” she said, “I should never dream of bothering about it. I’m only telling you what—”
“Of course you wouldn’t!” he exclaimed. “No decent person would. Later on, perhaps, if one could put in a word casually! But not now! ... If he doesn’t make a will he doesn’t make one—that’s all.”
Maggie leaned against the mantelpiece.
“Mind your skirt doesn’t catch fire,” he warned her, in a murmur.
“I told them what you’d say,” she answered his outburst, perfectly unmoved. “I knew what you’d say. But what they say is—it’s all very well for you. You’re the son, and it seems that if there isn’t a will, if it’s left too late—”
This aspect of the case had absolutely not presented itself to Edwin.
“If they think,” he muttered, with cold acrimony—“if they think I’m the sort of person to take the slightest advantage of being the son—well, they must think it—that’s all! Besides, they can always talk to him themselves—if they’re so desperately anxious.”