"I do think," he murmured resentfully, "that you might have remembered that I like China tea."
"I did remember, Ferdie, but there is not any in the house. You know all the rest of us prefer Ceylon."
He grunted and went on eating. "Poor china jug," she thought, "his cracks were very apparent now."
"Oh, Ferdie," she broke out, "I am really awfully sorry for you."
He looked up, his haggard face a little softened.
"Yes, I believe you really are, Violet, and I can tell you one thing, Clara wouldn't be if she was in your shoes."
She didn't answer, for she really did not know what to say about Clara—Clara, who had behaved so cruelly to poor Ferdie.
"She is a woman," he burst out, "with no heart, absolutely none."
"Perhaps she—perhaps she is sorry for Mr. Crichell," she suggested timidly.
He laughed. "Sorry? Not she. I tell you it is the legacy that has done it. The legacy. She always could twist Crichell around her little finger, and the very minute she heard the news, off she went to him and made up. You mark my words, the greater part of that legacy will be hanging round her neck before very long."