"And worthy of a very charming husband. But where is he? I have been tolerably intimate with the family for years--not, of course, as intimate as you, my dear Mrs. M'Diarmid, but still I may say an intimate and trusted friend--and I have never seen anyone whom I could think in the least likely to be a prétendu--not in the least."
"N-no; not before they left for Scotland, certainly."
"No; and then in Scotland, you know, of course there would have been a chance--country house full of company, thrown together and all that kind of thing--best adjuncts for love-making, importunity and opportunity, as I daresay you know well enough, my dear madam; but then Maddy was taken ill, and that spoilt the whole chance."
"Spoilt the whole chance! Maddy's illness spoilt the whole chance, did it? Are you quite sure of that, Mr. Foljambe? Are you quite sure that that illness did not decide Maddy's future?"
"That illness!"
"That illness. 'Importunity and opportunity,' to quote your own words, Mr. Foljambe, the last if hot the worst--have it how you will."
"My dear Mrs. M'Diarmid, you are speaking in riddles; you are a perfect Sphinx, and I am, alas, no OEdipus. Will you tell me shortly what you mean?"
"Yes, Mr. Foljambe, I will tell you; I came to tell you, and to ask you, as an old friend of the family, what you thought. More than that, I came to ask you, as an old friend of one whom I think most interested, what you thought. You know well and intimately Dr. Wilmot?"
"Know Wilmot? Thoroughly and most intimately, and--why, good God, my dear madam, you don't think that Wilmot is in love with Miss Kilsyth?"
"I confess that I have thought--"