Agatha Nesbitt was beautiful, and suddenly fortune came to her in the shape of Mrs. Greatorex. It was not a great fortune, truly, but it lifted the girl for the moment out of her Slough of Despond.
But now another terror threatened her. This detestable Dr. Darkham, whose visits to her aunt for the past few months had been so regular—whose visits, now that her aunt had declared herself off his hands, were still so regular—troubled here more than she cared to think.
What there was in his manner to distress her she hardly knew—- hardly understood; but she had learned to regard his coming with fear and loathing—to dread those tête-à-têtes, when, in the little ante-room, he wrote out his prescriptions and gave her his instructions.
Not that a word had ever been spoken that all the world might not hear—not a look; and, after all, what was there in the lengthened regard of his dark, unfathomable eyes to alarm her? She could not tell. Not—not love, certainly. He—a married man!
She had remonstrated with her aunt very often. To accept his visits without payment! Mrs. Greatorex, whose pride in her birth was excessive, but who would have gone any lengths to save her pocket, had pooh-poohed the girl's expostulations, and had continued to accept Dr. Darkham's visits without protest.
. . . . . . .
Agatha roused herself from her thoughts.
"I know how good you have been to me always," said she with warmth. "You are my one friend. It is because I love you that I can't bear you to have this Dr. Darkham coming here like this. He—-"
"My dear, he comes only because he likes to get away from the atmosphere of his sordid home. That pays him. He likes nice people, you know. Why do you dislike the poor man so much?"
"Dislike him?"