"Nay, but you can break it, Mrs. Rowe. I mean business to-day. The rarer I make my visits the better for both of us."
"I am quite of that opinion."
"Then make it as long as you like; you know how."
"Is this ever to end? Have you no shame? Charles, you will end with some tragedy. A man who can play the part you are playing, must be ready for crime!"
Mr. Charles shook his head in impatient rage, and made another step towards Mrs. Rowe.
"Move nearer, and I wake the house, come what may." Mrs. Rowe's face looked like one cut in grey stone.
"What! and wake the Dean and his lady! What! affright the Reverend Horace Mohun who counts Mrs. Rowe among the milk-white sheep of his flock! No; Mrs. Rowe is too prudent a woman—Now." As he ended, she drew forth a roll of notes. He made a clutch at them—and she started back.
"Charles, it has come to that! Robber! It will be murder some day."
"This day—by——"