"No, he is not, indeed."
"He seems to me more reserved than unsympathetic," said Mrs. Greatorex, who always supported him on principle. Were they not of the same class? "Are you going?" asked she, addressing Mrs. Poynter.
"We've been asked," said that pretty woman, with downcast lids.
"But do you think one should go—with this death so very recent? Are"—she paused prettily—"are you going?"
"Not as to a party"—with much empressement. "It will, I feel sure, be a quiet affair, on account of poor Dr. Darkham's bereavement."
"Oh, bereavement!" Mrs. Poynter permitted herself first a smile, and then gave way to a subdued laugh. "I say, mustn't he be glad?" said she.
"My dear Mrs. Poynter, hush! If any one should hear you! And, really, you take quite a wrong view of it. You are worse than Mr. Browne, who says quite dreadful things. I admire Dr. Darkham, you know—I do indeed. I think him an ideal man. Fancy his devotion to that dreadful being all these years!" She lifted her hands.
"Such a handsome man, my dear Mrs. Poynter; he is one in a thousand."
"So glad," said Mrs. Poynter, rather frivolously. "Two of him in a thousand would be more than one could endure. To me he always seems—don't you know—well, so out of it."
"Out of it?"