"My—my sister is quite upset," he says, nervously. "Mr. Branscombe was—was worse than she expected to find him."
"Upset!—and no wonder, too," says Mrs. Goodbody, with heavy sympathy, gazing approvingly at Miss Peyton. "There's no denying that he's so worn out, the pore dear, as it's quite dispiritin' to see 'im, what with his general appearings and the fear of a bad turn at any mingit. For myself, I take my meals quite promiscuous like, since he fell ill,—just a bit here and a bit there, it may be, but nothing reg'lar like. I ain't got the 'art. Howsoever, 'hope on, hope never,' is my motter, miss; and we must allus hope for the best, as the sayin' is."
"Just so," says Sir James, who doesn't know, in the very least, what to say.
"A good wife, sir, I allus say, is half the battle; and that lady up-stairs, she is a reg'lar trump, she is, and so devoted, as it's quite affectin' to witness. Good-mornin' sir—thank you, sir. I'll see to him, you be bound; and, with his good lady above, there ain't the smallest——"
Sir James, opening the hall door in despair, literally pushes Clarissa out and into the cab that is awaiting them. For a long time she says nothing; and just as he is beginning to get really anxious at her determined silence, she says, with some difficulty,—
"Jim, promise me something?"
"Anything," says Jim.
"Then never again allude to this day, or to anything connected with it; and never again mention—his—name to me, unless I first speak to you."
"Never!" returns he, fervently. "Be sure of it."
"Thank you," she says, like a tired child; and then, sinking back in her corner of the cab, she cries long and bitterly.