"He is old," said Agatha, trifling with the question as if to gain time.
"That is the last epithet to apply to him. My dear Agatha, consider. He is clever, as I say, and learned, and so kind and thoughtful. I'm sure his goodness to me during my illness—- Now, what further objection can you make?"
"I can't bear him," said Agatha, suddenly, which, indeed, was the conclusion of the whole matter.
"My dear! At your age! I beg, Agatha, that you will cease to consider yourself a baby. Such a speech as that, if you were a baby, might pass muster, but for a girl who has seen her twentieth year it sounds simply foolish. Why, when I was your age I had had six proposals. And you—have you had a single proposal, save this most fortunate one?"
She paused. Agatha did not answer. Meantime, Mrs. Greatorex waited relentlessly.
"Well?" she said.
"No." The answer was very faint, and it awoke in Mrs. Greatorex's mind a suspicion. Was the girl deceiving her? Was there an actual engagement between her and Dr. Dillwyn?
"No? Are you sure, Agatha? It seemed to me that you hesitated. I hope there is nothing in a certain absurd report I have heard about you and Dr. Dillwyn."
"There is nothing to say," said she in a low, anguished voice. Oh, that there had been!
"I am at liberty, then," said her tormentor, "to tell Dr. Darkham that you are absolutely free—that you care for nobody—- that your heart is still your own to dispose of? I may tell him that you have never felt so much as a passing fancy for this young man, Dr. Dillwyn, who has been sent here through a whim of Reginald Greatorex—to starve, as far as I can see; for Dr. Darkham, as you know, has all the paying practice, and Reginald Greatorex"—bitterly—"as you also know, is a false friend, and a man that would rather die than part with a penny. I may tell Dr. Darkham that?"