“Miss Clode,” he said firmly, “I do not confide to people what I think. Good-morning.”
“No, no: stop,” she said earnestly; and he turned, wondering at her tone of voice, and agitation.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Only—only—that I have known you so long, Mr Linnell, I can’t help—humbly, of course—taking a little interest in you—you made me feel so proud just now—when you tore up those foolish women’s letters—and now—”
“Well, and now?” he said sternly.
“It troubled me—pray don’t be angry with me—it troubled me—to think—of course it was foolish of me, but I should not—should not like to see you—”
“Well, Miss Clode, pray speak,” for she had stopped again.
“See you make an unworthy choice,” she faltered.
“Miss Clode, this is too much,” he said, flushing angrily, and he turned and left the shop, the little thin pale woman gazing after him wistfully and sighing bitterly as he passed from her sight.
“I’m—I’m very fond of him,” she said as she wiped a few weak tears from her eyes. “Such a brave, upright, noble young fellow, and so gentle one moment, and so full of spirit the next. Dear, dear, dear, what a thing it is! He never wastes money in gambling, and wine and follies. Perhaps he would though, if he were as rich as the rest of them. And he ought to be.”