“What has happened to you?” she asked, raising her eyes with evident interest.
“Something very disagreeable. Do you like to hear confessions? And when you do, are you inclined to give absolution to your penitents?”
“What is it! What do you want to tell me?” Her face expressed some uneasiness.
“Do you remember, when I first came here—the second time, I should say—when Tom Craik was in such a bad way, and I hoped he would die? You know, I told you I would go and leave a card with inquiries, and you advised me not to. I went—in fact, I called several times.”
“You never told me. Why should you? It was foolish of me, too. It was none of my business.”
“I wish I had taken your advice. The old man got well again, but I have not seen him till to-day. Just now, as I walked here, he was coming out of his club, and I ran against him before I knew where I was. Do you know? He had taken my inquiries seriously. Thought I asked out of pure milk and water of human kindness, so to say—thanked me so nicely and asked me to go and see him! I felt like such a beast.”
Constance laughed and for some reason or other the high, musical ring of her laughter did not give George as much satisfaction as usual.
“What did you do?” she asked, a moment later.
“I hardly know. I could not tell him to his face that he had not appreciated my peculiar style of humour, that I loathed him as I loathe the plague, and that I had called to know whether the undertaker was in the house. I believe I said something civil—contemptibly civil, considering the circumstances—and he left me in front of the club feeling as if I had eaten something I did not like. I wish you had been there to get me out of the scrape with some more good advice!”
“I? Why should I——”