“Goodness me, Mr Wimble, what is the matter?” she said faintly.
“Everything,” he cried, making a snatch at her wrist, and holding it tightly. “Woman, you know how for years I have had hopes.”
“Well, Mr Wimble, you made me think so; but it’s quite impossible, I assure you. Neighbours, but nothing more.”
“Why, woman, why?” he said, in a whisper.
“Because—because I am quite happy and contented as I am, Mr Wimble, with my little bit of an income and my lodger.”
“Yes,” cried Wimble, with a laugh, “that’s it. Ah, woman, woman, that you could throw yourself away upon a creature like that?”
“Mr Wimble, what do you mean?”
“Knowing how I worshipped you, for you to consort with a vile creature, who cheats and abuses your confidence—a villain too bad to be allowed to live—a man whom the law will seize before long.”
“Mr Wimble, are you mad?”
“Yes, madam, with shame and horror, to think what must come when you find out that this serpent who has wound himself about you is a convict, a murderer, who stops at nothing.”