“You seem glad to hear it,” said Constance, looking at him with some curiosity.
“I? Yes—well, I am not exactly sorry!” His laugh was harsh and unreal. “You could hardly expect me to shed tears—that is, if you know anything of my father’s misfortunes.”
“Yes, I have heard something. But I am sorry that I was the person to give you the news.”
“Why? I am grateful to you.”
“I know you are, and that is precisely what I do not like. I do not expect you to be grieved, but I do not like to see one man so elated over the news of another man’s danger.”
“Why not say, his death!” exclaimed George.
Constance was silent for a moment, and then looked at him as she spoke.
“I hardly know you, Mr. Wood. This is only the second time I have seen you, and I have no right to make remarks about your character. But I cannot help thinking—that——”
She hesitated, not as though from any embarrassment, but as if she could not find the words she wanted. George made no attempt to help her, though he knew perfectly well what she wanted to say. He waited coldly to see whether she could complete her sentence.
“You ought not to think such things,” she said suddenly, “and if you do, you ought not to show it.”