“A romance,” he said, “is something that is not true?”
“It must be true,” I said. “Do you suppose any person—especially a lady, as Mrs. Holdfast is—could possibly say what is not true, in such a position as hers?”
“It is not—a—possible,” he replied. “You are right. What say the people? As you say?”
“They can say nothing else. What object could she have to serve in speaking anything but the truth? Her husband is dead; that wicked young man—what was his name?” I asked, serving him in his own coin.
“Frederick,” he said, quickly.
“That wicked young man, Frederick, is dead, and she is left alone, a rich widow. Money is very nice. I should like to have as much. I think it would almost console me for the loss of a husband—especially a husband much older than myself.”
Forgive me, my dear, for speaking in this way, but to say honestly to a man like Richard Manx what is in one’s mind would not be wise.
He smiled at my words.
“It may be,” he said, “that Madame Lydia thinks as you. But you would not have been so—what do you call it? indiscreet?—yes, that word will do—you would not have been so indiscreet as to say to a gentleman of the press as much as she said. It was too candid—there was no—a—necessity. Why proclaim it?”