"She is too grateful."
"I don't know about that. I met that infernal Hunting downstairs. Of course I couldn't treat him with politeness, and do you know the little lady spunked up about it to that degree that she almost turned her back upon me and left the room."
"Of course," said Gregory, coolly, shielding his secret by a desperate effort; "they are engaged."
"Oh, I understand now. Well, I rather like her spirit. Does she know how accomplished her lover is in Wall Street?"
"No. Hunting is a distant relative of the family. They believe him to be a gentleman, and would not listen to a word against him."
"But they ought to know. He lied like a scoundrel to us, and in your trying all summer to make up the losses, he has nearly been the death of you. I wouldn't let my daughter marry him though he had enough money to break the Street: and it is a pity that a fine girl, as this Miss Walton seems, should throw herself away on him."
"Well, Seymour, that's not our affair," said Gregory, pale and faint from his effort at self-control. "They would listen to nothing."
"Well, good-by, old fellow. I see it won't do to talk with you any more. Get well as soon as you can, for we want you woefully in town. Get well, and carry off this Miss Walton yourself. It would be a neat way of turning the tables on Hunting."
"Don't set your heart on seeing me at the office again," said Gregory,
feelingly. "I have a presentiment that I shan't pull through this, and
I don't much care. Give my kindest regards to Mr. Burnett, and tell him
I shall think of him to the last as among my best friends."
Seymour made a few hearty remonstrances against such a state of mind, and took his departure with many misgivings. Gregory relapsed into his old dreary apathy. Life had so many certain ills that upon the whole he felt he would rather die. But he was too stunned and weak to think much, save when Annie came to him. Her presence was always life, but now it was a sharp revival of the consciousness of his loss. Left to himself, his mind sank down into a sort of painless lethargy, from which he did not wish to be aroused.