"Understand me, Mr. Rivers; I meant all in honour, you know."
Owen winced. The very assurance was almost offensive, but he returned, "I spoke very stupidly and awkwardly; I'll amend my phrase. I should have said, what put it into your head that I was likely to marry Mrs. Bransby?"
"Put it into my head? Well, when a young man feels a soft sort of compassion for a beautiful woman who—who throws herself a good deal on his sympathy, and looks to him for help and advice and all the rest of it, and when the young man and the beautiful woman have opportunities of seeing each other pretty constantly, why then I believe such a thing has been heard of in history as their falling in love with each other. It don't need much 'putting into your head' to see that when you've come to my years."
"Are you quite sure," persisted Owen, "that no suggestion of this kind was made to you by any third person? I have a particular reason for wishing to know."
Mr. Bragg pondered. He had, in fact, heard Theodore's hints and innuendos at the Dormer-Smiths, and although he was not consciously moved by them in what he had now said, there could be no doubt that the idea had been originally suggested to him by young Bransby and Pauline; Owen's words to-day had merely revived those impressions. After a long pause, he answered—
"Well, I think I have heard it spoken of; but, if so, all the more reason for you to be cautious."
"I thought so!" said Owen. "Spoken of by——"
"Why, by Mrs. B.'s step-son for one; so you may suppose there was nothing said against the lady. He'd think it an uncommon good thing, I dare say; it would relieve him of a burthen. He might wash his hands of the family if she was to marry again."
"Relieve him of a burthen!" cried Owen, starting up from his chair. "Have you any idea what he does for his father's widow and children, Mr. Bragg? Theodore Bransby is a liar. I know him. There's nothing too base for him to insinuate against his stepmother, who is, I declare to God, one of the best and most innocent women breathing! Theodore has a grudge against her and her children—a jealous, petty, despicable kind of grudge; and he's a mean-minded scoundrel!" He checked himself in walking furiously about the room, and turned to Mr. Bragg with an apology. "I beg your pardon, but I cannot talk coolly of that fellow."
"I'm inclined to agree with you, and yet I wish I could think better of him; or rather, I wish he was somebody else altogether," said Mr. Bragg enigmatically, thinking of May.