“I wish they were married,” she said. “I wish they were married and—safe!”
“Safe!” put in Mrs. Phil. “That is a queer thing to say. They are not in any danger, let us devoutly hope.”
The two wrinkles deepened, and the wise one sighed.
“I hope not,” she answered, bending her small, round, anxious face over her sewing, and attacking it vigorously.
“They never struck me, you know,” returned Mrs. Phil, “as being a particularly dangerous couple, though now I think of it I do remember that it has once or twice occurred to me that Griffith has been rather stupid lately.”
“It has occurred to me,” remarked Phil, dryly, “that he has taken a most unaccountable dislike to Gowan.”
Mollie turned round to her window again.
“Not to put it too strongly,” continued the head of the family, “he hates him like the deuce.”
And he was not far wrong in making the assertion. The time had been coming for some time when the course of this unimposing story of true love was no longer to run smooth, and in these days Griffith was in a dangerous frame of mind. Now and then he heard of Gowan dropping in to spend a few hours at Brabazon Lodge, and now and then he heard of his good fortune in having found in Miss MacDowlas a positive champion. He was even a favorite with her, just as he was a favorite with many other people. Griffith did not visit Brabazon Lodge himself, he had given that up long ago, indeed had only once paid his respects to his relative since her arrival in London. That one visit, short and ceremonious as it was, had been enough for him. Like many estimable ladies, Miss MacDowlas had prejudices of her own which were hard to remove, and appearances had been against her nephew.
“If he is living a respectable life, and so engaged in a respectable profession, my dear,” commented Dolly's proprietress, in one of her after conversations on the subject, “why does he look shabby and out at elbows? It is my opinion that he is a very disreputable young man.”