"She's dying," said Miss Firs-Robinson; "not a doubt of it! She's heavy, you know; and her head came with an awful thud on the ground. Concussion, that's what it is. They say the boy—that unfortunate creature, you know—was in a frightful state; but they do say that the husband bore it wonderfully."
"Scandalous gossip!" said Mrs. Greatorex, drawing back and letting the tea overflow in the cup.
"Why?" asked Miss Firs-Robinson, who, if a gossip, was, at all events, not a hypocrite. "I should think he'd be glad enough to get rid of her—decently, you know—decently."
"Dear Miss Firs-Robinson, surely you don't quite mean what you say!"
"Indeed I do, my dear. If people are tied together, and don't like each other, they had better be separated."
"Good heavens, this is heresy!" said Mr. Browne. "You'll get taken up, Miss Robinson, if you don't look out."
"Not me!" said the old maid, with her loud, hearty laugh. "No such luck. Nobody ever wanted me in all my born days, except 'Frida. And I stick to what I say. It's my opinion that poor Mrs. Darkham didn't have altogether a good time with her husband."
"Ah, you are evidently prejudiced!" said Mrs. Greatorex sweetly.
"And prejudiced people, you know, have no opinions."
"I don't agree with you there."