‘Tell me about the girl. What does she do?’
‘She goes to work, I believe; but I haven’t heard much about her since a good time. Sidney Kirkwood’s a friend of her grandfather. He often goes there, I believe.’
‘What is she like?’ Clara asked, after a pause. ‘She used to be such a weak, ailing thing, I never thought she’d grow up. What’s she like to look at?’
‘I can’t tell you, my dear. I don’t know as ever I see her since those times.’
Again a silence.
‘Then it’s Mr. Kirkwood that has told you what you know of her?’
‘Why, no. It was chiefly Mrs. Peckover told me. She did say, Clara—but then I can’t tell whether it’s true or not—she did say something about Sidney and her.’
He spoke with difficulty, feeling constrained to make the disclosure, but anxious as to its result. Clara made no movement, seemed to have heard with indifference.
‘It’s maybe partly ’cause of that,’ added John, in a low voice, ‘that he doesn’t like to come here.’
‘Yes; I understand.’