“Got any money?” he abruptly inquired.
“I? No,” said Rhoda.
“No, no; your intended.”
“Oh! Yes—three thousand a year.”
“Humph!” Mr Dawson whistled again. Then, making as if he meant to leave the room, he suddenly brought up before Phoebe.
“Are you going to be married?”
“No, Sir,” said Phoebe, blushing.
“Humph!” ejaculated the lawyer, once again.
Silence followed for a few seconds.
“Funeral on Sunday, I suppose? Read the will on Monday morning—eh?”