“Where did you go?”
“To a kind clergyman in Shropshire who thought he might help me.”
“How was he going to do it?”
She answered with an effort to steady a somewhat lowered and hesitating voice.
“There was near his parish a very nice—charity,”—her breath caught itself pathetically,—“some most comfortable almshouses for decayed gentlewomen. He thought he might be able to use his influence to get me into one.” She paused and smiled, but her small, wrinkled hands held each other closely.
Tembarom looked away. He spoke as though to himself, and without knowing that he was thinking aloud.
“Almshouses!” he said. “Wouldn't that jolt you!” He turned on her again with a change to cheerful concern. “Say, that cushion of yours ain't comfortable. I 'm going to get you another one.” He jumped up and, taking one from a sofa, began to arrange it behind her dexterously.
“But I mustn't trouble you any longer. I must go, really,” she said, half rising nervously. He put a hand on her shoulder and made her sit again.
“Go where?” he said. “Just lean back on that cushion, Miss Alicia. For the next few minutes this is going to be MY funeral.”
She was at once startled and uncomprehending. What an extraordinary expression! What COULD it mean?