“And are you very fierce and terrible on those occasions?”
“Very terrible indeed,” laughed the young girl. “I should frighten you if you were to see me.”
“I can well believe that. I am of a timid disposition.”
“Are you? You do not look like it. I shall ask Mrs. Trimm if it is true. By-the-bye, have you seen her to-day?”
“Not since we were here together.”
“I thought you saw her very often. I had a note from her yesterday. I suppose you know?”
“I know nothing. What is it?”
“Old Mr. Craik is very ill—dying, they say. She wrote to tell me so, explaining why she had not been here.”
George’s eyes suddenly gleamed with a disagreeable light. The news was as unexpected as it was agreeable. Not, indeed, that George could ever hope to profit in any way by the old man’s death; for he was naturally so generous that, if such a prospect had existed, he would have been the last to rejoice in its realisation. He hated Thomas Craik with an honest and disinterested hatred, and the idea the world was to be rid of him at last was inexpressibly delightful.
“He is dying, is he?” he asked in a constrained voice.