‘I am sorry to hear that, Mrs Bligh,’ said Mr Travers (who had ceased to deal with those local tradesmen, at his place in the Midlands, who were suspected of having ‘voted wrong’ the previous week). ‘I am sorry indeed to hear that. May I ask who punished him?’
‘Certainly—I did.’
It was a startling reply. The Judge quietly quitted the room. Alfred, with his back to every one, surveyed his red face in the mantel-mirror, and ground his teeth; only Lady Bligh sat stoically still.
‘He came back to the trap very drunk—blind, speechless, paralytic,’ the Bride explained rapidly, ‘and owned up what he’d done as bold as brass. So I let him have it with the whip, pretty sudden, I can tell you. It was chiefly for his drunken insolence—but not altogether,’ said Gladys, candidly.
Mr Travers had been glad to pick up a thing or two concerning Australian politics, but he seemed now to consider himself sufficiently enlightened.
‘Do you sing, Mrs Bligh?’ he asked somewhat abruptly.
‘Not a note,’ said the Bride, perceiving with regret that the subject was changed.
‘You play, perhaps? If so——’
‘No, I can’t play neither,’ said the Bride, smiling broadly—and bewitchingly. ‘I’m no good at all, you see!’
It seemed too true. She had not the saving grace of a single accomplishment—nothing, nothing, nothing but her looks!