"Then you think—-"
"I am afraid she is a terrible flirt," said Agatha. Whereon they both laughed.
"Here comes John Dillwyn," said Mrs. Poynter presently. "And straight to us. You are not a flirt, I know, Agatha—which makes me all the more afraid for you. You know he hasn't a penny. Well, John," taking a sympathetic note at once, "so that poor woman has slipped through your fingers. We are all so shocked about it. There was no hope from the beginning, I suppose?"
"I don't think that. I fully believed there was a chance for her, but it was a bare one. Still—-"—he knitted his brows as if perplexed—"I believed in it."
"You mustn't say that now, John," said Mrs. Poynter, patting her cousin's arm; "you have your fortune to make, you know, and mistakes are fatal. Ah, you'll get on, John; you have the courage to confess your faults," said his cousin, smiling; "but don't confess them before unappreciative people. Dr. Darkham is, of course, very—-"
"I saw him only for a moment this morning. He looked like death himself. I had no idea he—er—cared for her so much. His face looked quite changed."
"Agatha, I think we must go now," said a cold voice. Mrs. Greatorex laid her hand on Agatha's shoulder. "How d'ye do, Dr. Dillywn? I hope you have seen poor Dr. Darkham, and that he is bearing up?"
"He seems greatly cut up," said Dillwyn.
"Ah, as I said. So sympathetic, so tender-hearted! I should so like to tell him how I feel for him."
"I am afraid you will have no chance of doing that except by letter. He is leaving home directly after the funeral for some months."