“Oh, there’s nothing in that, Miss Clode. You pay your rent to the day, and, as Mr Barclay says, it’s a business transaction.”
“Of course, it’s very painful to me, Mrs Barclay, and I shouldn’t have told you what I did, only you know you came and asked me what people were saying.”
“Well, so I did. Yes, you’re right, I did. But it isn’t true, Miss Clode. Miss Claire Denville is as good as gold, and people tell most horrible stories, and where you get to know so much I can’t think. But does everybody talk about it?”
“Yes, ma’am, everybody; and Mr and Mrs Burnett haven’t been there since.”
“I don’t care: I won’t believe it. And is it a fact that she goes regularly to Fisherman Miggles’s to see that little girl?”
“Yes, ma’am, regularly.”
“Then she has a good reason for it. There!”
“It’s a terrible blow for Mr Denville, of course, ma’am; and they say the young gentleman who has only just joined the dragoons is horribly put out, and challenged Sir Harry Payne, only the Colonel would not let them fight.”
“Dear—dear—dear! Poor Denville! he has nothing but misfortunes. I am sorry for him; I am indeed. Well, I must go; but mind this, Miss Clode: Claire Denville is a particular friend of mine, and no one shall say ill of her in my presence.”
There was a very strong resemblance to a ruffled hen, whose chickens had been looked at by a strange cat, in Mrs Barclay’s aspect as she left Miss Clode’s, while, at her aunt’s command, Annie, the bun-faced, moved a Berlin wool pattern on one side in the window so that she could command a view of the Parade from the bulging panes, and after watching there for a few minutes she said: