"Can I?" she said, with sudden eagerness.
"No," he answered, roughly. "You are bound by the paper we signed."
This was her own belief. With a sigh she turned away, and strove to fix her mind upon a book. But the words swam before her eyes; she turned over page after page mechanically, without the least understanding of their sense. All at once her attention was arrested by mention of a name--Old Corrie. For some reason of his own, Gilbert Bidaud had directed the conversation he was holding with Chaytor to the old Australian days, and he had just inquired whether Chaytor could give him any information of Old Corrie. The old fellow's visit to Emily's mother in Bournemouth had been made about the time that Annette's feelings were undergoing a change towards the man to whom she had engaged herself, as she believed, irrevocably. This would not have been a sufficient cause for her not speaking of the visit to Chaytor, but he had latterly expressed himself sick of Australia and all allusions to it.
"Don't speak of it again to me," he had said, pettishly, "or of anybody I knew there."
She obeyed him, and thus it was that he was ignorant of particulars, the knowledge of which would have saved him from tripping on the present occasion.
"Corrie," said Chaytor, "the woodman? Oh, that old fool!" Annette started. The brutal tone in which Chaytor spoke shocked her. "He's dead; and a good riddance too." Annette covered her eyes with her hands. Old Corrie was dead; he must have died lately--since his visit to Bournemouth. How strange that the man who had just spoken had said nothing to her of the good old man's death! She held her breath, and listened in amazement to what followed.
"Dead, eh?" said Gilbert, callously. "Long since?"
"A good many years ago."
"In Australia, then?"
"Of course, in Australia." Gilbert would have dropped the subject, as being of small interest; but, observing that Annette was listening to the conversation with somewhat unusual attention, was impelled to say something more upon it.