“And then,” continued Clara, “he’ll fight the dog, and kill him as King Richard did the lion.”
“Oh, please, don’t tease,” I said humbly; “I wonder how he is.”
“Miss Furness says he is better,” said Clara.
“How dare Miss Furness know?” I cried, indignantly.
“Dear me! How jealous we are!” she said, in her vulgar, tantalising way. “How should I know?”
And, for the daughter of a titled lady, it was quite disgusting to hear of what common language she made use.
“I don’t believe that she knows a single bit about it at all,” I said, angrily; for it did seem so exasperating and strange for that old thing to know, while somebody else, whom he had promised to make—but there, I am not at liberty to say what he had promised.
“You may depend upon one thing,” said Clara, “and that is that your Achille will not be invulnerable to dogs’ bites; though, even if he is, he will be tender in the heel, which is the first part that he will show Mr Cyclops, if he comes. But you will see if he does not take good care not to come upon these grounds after dark—that is, as soon as he knows about the dog. By-the-by, dear, what a dislike the dog seems to have to anything French.”
“I’d kill the wretch if it bit him,” I said.
Clara laughed as if she did not believe me.