What was quite true about Richard Linnell? If it was about Claire Denville, she would tear him from her; she would crush her. How dare she presume to think of her idol—the true, brave fellow who had dashed into the sea and saved her when she was drowning?
Poor Fisherman Dick, like many more, not being young and handsome, was forgotten after that ten-pound note.
Cora’s eyes flashed, her cheeks burned, and she looked as beautiful as an artist’s idea of Juno, listening now with all the concentration of her passionate nature.
“I oughtn’t to talk about it, ma’am, and I wouldn’t tell anyone but you,” Annie went on. “They said he fell over the cliff this morning and cut his head.”
Cora Dean saw blood upon a white forehead, and she clutched the back of a chair, for the room seemed to be turning, and she felt sick.
“But he didn’t, ma’am.”
“Isn’t he hurt, then?”
“Yes, ma’am, badly. I wonder you didn’t know. You see, he met Major Rockley—you know him, ma’am?—handsome dark gentleman with mustachios.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Mrs Dean, revelling in the bit of gossip. “Have some more cake.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Major Rockley was out walking with Miss Claire Denville out on the Downs—”