“That is evidence of your lack of a kind heart, Dick, not of my possession of such a disqualification for success in the world,” said she.
“True; but I heard the wail of the catgut, and yet when I saw Tom Linley just now his face wore a look of triumph, and so far as I could see, his fiddle was intact.”
“Psha! Dick, you should not cultivate that roundabout mode of speech unless you mean to be taken for a poet. I was not thinking of Tom Linley—’tis minutes since he was here. No, I had a fancy that you called me kind-hearted because I did not reproach you for failing to visit me once, though I have now been here several weeks.”
“I was wrong—very wrong. But, you see, with Tom Linley——”
“Ah, poor Tom! Yes, he has certainly been here more than once. I have really become quite fond of Tom. He is such a nice boy—surely the handsomest boy that—that——”
“That was ever made a fool of,” suggested Dick, when the lady paused.
“Well, we shall say that ever made a fool of himself—that frees every one else from responsibility,” laughed the lady. “Dick, the man who is wise enough to make a fool of himself every now and again is indeed the wise man. But Tom is a mighty pretty fellow. He is coming up to London, too.”
Dick’s face became grave. He shook his head.
“That is past a jest,” said he.
“Past a jest? Pray, who was talking of jesting?” she asked quite gravely.