When we had finished and had our little dessert before us, embellished by the hands of my dear, who would yield the superintendence of everything prepared for me to no one, Miss Flite was so very chatty and happy that I thought I would lead her to her own history, as she was always pleased to talk about herself. I began by saying “You have attended on the Lord Chancellor many years, Miss Flite?”
“Oh, many, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a judgment. Shortly.”
There was an anxiety even in her hopefulness that made me doubtful if I had done right in approaching the subject. I thought I would say no more about it.
“My father expected a judgment,” said Miss Flite. “My brother. My sister. They all expected a judgment. The same that I expect.”
“They are all—”
“Ye-es. Dead of course, my dear,” said she.
As I saw she would go on, I thought it best to try to be serviceable to her by meeting the theme rather than avoiding it.
“Would it not be wiser,” said I, “to expect this judgment no more?”
“Why, my dear,” she answered promptly, “of course it would!”
“And to attend the court no more?”