“Mrs Berens!”
“Yes, dear; it’s quite true. One minute he was sympathetic and kind, and the next laughing at and bantering me in a strange tone.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No, my dear. He told me it was all nonsense, and that I was as hearty as a brick. What an expression to use to a lady! And then he apologised, and spoke calmly, giving me excellent advice.”
Mary wiped the dew from her white forehead.
“And then, my dear,” continued Mrs Berens, “directly after he called me his pretty buxom widow. I felt as if I should sink through the floor with indignant shame.”
“Are you not mistaken, Mrs Berens?” said Mary, whose voice grew tremulous and almost inaudible.
“Mistaken, my dear? Oh, no; that is what he said; and then he seemed to feel ashamed of it, and I saw him colour up.”
“It seems impossible,” muttered Mary; and then she recalled her brother’s words, and a hand seemed to clutch her heart.
“Of course,” continued Mrs Berens, “I could not order him to leave the house; I could only look at him indignantly.”