“People will talk down here, Mr Linnell. They have so little else to do.”
“More’s the pity,” said Richard pettishly.
“And is—is Mrs Dean quite well again, Mr Linnell?”
“Oh yes,” he said coolly. “She was more frightened than hurt.”
“Does Miss Dean seem any worse, sir? Does she look pale?”
The little woman asked these questions in a hesitating way, her hands busy the while over various objects on her counter.
“Pale—pale?” said Richard, turning over the violin strings and looking to see which were the most clear. “Really, I did not notice, Miss Clode.”
“He would not speak so coolly if this affair had ripened into anything more warm than being on friendly terms,” thought the little woman, and she seemed to breathe more freely.
“I’m afraid I’ve been very rude,” continued the young man. “I ought to have asked after them this morning.”
Miss Clode gave another sigh of relief.