"But she's dead!" said Dora, triumphantly as a little tigress.
"So much the worse it is to hate her. Who was she?"
"His wife," said Dora.
I durst not ask the child any more questions.
"Eustace, who is Meg?"
I could not but ask that question as we sat tete-a-tete after dinner, Dora having gone to carry Harold some fruit, and being sure to stay with him as long as he permitted.
Eustace looked round with a startled, cautious eye, as if afraid of being overheard, and said, as Dora had done, "His wife."
"Not alive?"
"Oh, no—thank goodness."
"At his age!"