The lawyer then fidgeted again on his seat in silence, sign of an inward struggle; during which Kate's eye watched him with some curiosity. At last his wavering balance inclined towards revealing something or other.
"Mistress Kate," said he, "my wife and I are both your faithful friends, and humble admirers: we often say you would grace a coronet: and wish you were as rich as you are good and beautiful."
Kate turned her lovely head away, and gave him her hand. That incongruous movement, so full of womanly grace and feeling, and the soft pressure of her white hand, completed her victory, and the remains of Houseman's reserve melted away.
"Yes, my dear young lady," said he, warmly, "I have good news for you: only, mind, not a living soul must ever know it from your lips. Why, I am going to do for you what I never did in my life before; going to tell you something that passed yesterday in my office. But then I know you: you are a young lady out of a thousand: I can trust you to be discreet, and silent; can I not?"
"As the grave."
"Well, then, my young mistress—in truth it was like a play, though the scene was but a lawyer's office—"
"Was it?" cried Kate. "Then you set me all of a flutter: you must sup here, and sleep here. Nay, nay," said she, her eyes sparkling with animation, "I'll take no denial. My father dines abroad: we shall have the house to ourselves."
Her interest was keenly excited: but she was a true woman, and must coquet with her very curiosity; so she ran off to see with her own eyes that sheets were aired, and a roasting fire lighted in the blue bedroom for her guest.
While she was away, a servant brought in Griffith Gaunt's letter, and a sheet of paper had to be borrowed to answer it.
The answer was hardly written and sent out to Griffith's servant, when supper and the fair hostess came in almost together.