"True! true! You knew him so well!" says Lady Rylton, hiding her eyes behind the web of a handkerchief she is holding. One tear would have reduced it to pulp. "And when he was——" She pauses.
"Was dead?" says Margaret kindly, softly.
"Oh, don't, dear Margaret, don't!" says Lady Rylton, with a tragical start. "That dreadful word! One should never mention death! It is so rude! He, your poor uncle—he left us with the sweetest resignation on the 18th of February, 1887."
"I never saw such resignation," says Mrs. Bethune, with deep emphasis.
She casts a glance at Margaret, who, however, refuses to have anything to do with it. But, for all that, Mrs. Bethune is clearly enjoying herself. She can never, indeed, refrain from sarcasm, even when her audience is unsympathetic.
"Yes, yes; he was resigned," says Lady Rylton, pressing her handkerchief to her nose.
"So much so, that one might almost think he was glad to go," says
Mrs. Bethune, nodding her head with beautiful sympathy.
She is now shaking with suppressed laughter.
"Yes; glad. It is such a comfort to dwell on it," says Lady Rylton, still dabbing her eyes. "He was happy—quite happy when he left me."
"I never saw anyone so happy," says Mrs. Bethune.