“Bear what, Mr Walton?”
“The loss of your aunt.”
“You don’t think grannie cares about that, do you! She’s vexed enough at the loss of Captain Everard,—Do you know, I think he had too much wine yesterday, or he wouldn’t have made quite such a fool of himself.”
“I fear he hadn’t had quite enough to give him courage, Judy. I daresay he was brave enough once, but a bad conscience soon destroys a man’s courage.”
“Why do you call it a bad conscience, Mr Walton? I should have thought that a bad conscience was one that would let a girl go on anyhow and say nothing about it to make her uncomfortable.”
“You are quite right, Judy; that is the worst kind of conscience, certainly. But tell me, how does Mrs Oldcastle bear it?”
“You asked me that already.”
Somehow Judy’s words always seem more pert upon paper than they did upon her lips. Her naivete, the twinkling light in her eyes, and the smile flitting about her mouth, always modified greatly the expression of her words.
“—Grannie never says a word about you or auntie either.”
“But you said she was vexed: how do you know that?”