“That weary law! that weary law!” ejaculated Dill, fervently; for he well knew with what little favor Miss Barrington regarded litigation.
“And why so, sir?” retorted she, sharply. “What greater absurdity is there in being hypochondriac about your property than your person? My brother's taste inclines to depletion by law; others prefer the lancet.”
“Always witty, always smart, the dear lady,” said Dill, with a sad attempt at a smile. The flattery passed without acknowledgment of any kind, and he resumed: “I dropped in this morning to you, dear lady, on a matter which, perhaps, might not be altogether pleasing to you.”
“Then don't do it, sir.”
“If the dear lady would let me finish—”
“I was warning you, sir, not even to begin.”
“Yes, madam,” said he, stung into something like resistance; “but I would have added, had I been permitted, without any due reason for displeasure on your part.”
“And are you the fitting judge of that, sir? If you know, as you say you know, that you are about to give me pain, by what presumption do you assert that it must be for my benefit? What's it all about?”
“I come on the part of this young gentleman, dear lady, who, having learned—I cannot say where or how—that he is not to consider himself here at an inn, but, as a guest, feels, with all the gratitude that the occasion warrants, that he has no claim to the attention, and that it is one which would render his position here too painful to persist in.”
“How did he come by this impression, sir? Be frank and tell me.”