"I say," said Lord George suddenly, and waking from a brown study, "who is Mrs. Krill? I've heard the name."
"It's not an uncommon name," said Hay, untruthfully and quickly. "She is a rich widow who has lately come to London."
"Where did she come from?"
"I can't tell you that. From the wilds of Yorkshire I believe. You had better ask her."
"Oh, by Jove, no, I wouldn't be so rude. But I seem to know the name." Paul privately thought that if he read the papers, he ought certainly to know the name, and he was on the point of making, perhaps an injudicious remark, but Hay pointedly looked at him in such a meaning way, that he held his tongue. More, when they left their wine for the society of the ladies, Hay squeezed his friend's arm in the passage.
"Don't mention the death," he said, using a politer word by preference. "Sandal doesn't connect Mrs. Krill with the dead man. She wants to live the matter down."
"In that case she ought to leave London for a time."
"She intends to. When I make Maud my wife, we will travel with her mother for a year or two, until the scandal of the murder blows over. Luckily the name of Lemuel Krill was not mentioned often in the papers, and Sandal hasn't seen a hand-bill that I know of. I suppose you agree with me that silence is judicious?"
"Yes," assented Paul, "I think it is."
"And you congratulate me on my approaching marriage?"