Her manner was kind, but reserved. She had noticed his attentions to Agatha, and was not yet sure whether they ought to be encouraged or rejected.
He was poor, and though Reginald Greatorex had, in a sense, placed him here, still, she knew that "old skinflint"—I regret that that was the name she applied to her brother-in-law in her private hours—was certainly not to be depended upon. This rather presumptuous young doctor would never get a penny out of Reginald Greatorex if he hoped for a thousand years. Had she not hoped?
And yet, though she assured herself Dillwyn had no chance of old Reginald's money, still, the very fact that he might have a chance rendered the young man distasteful in her eyes. A protege of Reginald's would always be a blur upon the landscape of her life.
"No, I think not," said Dillwyn; "yet your niece has certainly been subjected to a severe shock. That unfortunate boy was greatly disturbed in mind, and, as it appears, ran to Miss Nesbitt at once for comfort. He meant nothing beyond a desire to gain help for his mother, who is very ill."
"Mrs Darkham is ill?"
"Yes, seriously so."
"Good heavens! Nothing infectious, I hope? Oh, Agatha! And you have been with her son just now! My dear"—drawing herself back hurriedly—"had you not better go in and get disinfected? Sulphur is very good, and—-"
"I don't think you need be alarmed in this instance," said Dillwyn coldly; "concussion of the brain is not catching."
At this moment the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside could be heard, and a laugh—gay, sweet.