There was very little fire in the parlour, and Constance, in addition to being bored by Mrs. Critchlow’s inane and inquisitive remarks, felt chilly, which was bad for her sciatica. She wondered whether Sophia would have to confess to Mr. Critchlow that she was not certainly a widow. She thought that steps ought to be taken to ascertain, through Birkinshaws, if anything was known of Gerald Scales. But even that course was set with perils. Supposing that he still lived, an unspeakable villain (Constance could only think of him as an unspeakable villain), and supposing that he molested Sophia,—what scenes! What shame in the town! Such frightful thoughts ran endlessly through Constance’s mind as she bent over the fire endeavouring to keep alive a silly conversation with Maria Critchlow.
Amy passed through the parlour to go to bed. There was no other way of reaching the upper part of the house.
“Are you going to bed, Amy?”
“Yes’m.”
“Where is Fossette?”
“In the kitchen, m’m,” said Amy, defending herself. “Mrs. Scales told me the dog might sleep in the kitchen with Spot, as they was such good friends. I’ve opened the bottom drawer, and Fossit is lying in that.”
“Mrs. Scales has brought a dog with her!” exclaimed Maria.
“Yes’m!” said Amy, drily, before Constance could answer. She implied everything in that affirmative.
“You are a family for dogs,” said Maria. “What sort of dog is it?”
“Well,” said Constance. “I don’t know exactly what they call it. It’s a French dog, one of those French dogs.” Amy was lingering at the stairfoot. “Good night, Amy, thank you.”