“Nonsense, Jo-si-ah! Do you mean to tell me—now, how can you? Why, we’ve been married over thirty years, and that wicked little hussy isn’t above twenty. How can you talk such stuff?”
“You set me going,” he said grimly. “You talked as if May Burnett must be my own flesh and blood.”
“I didn’t, Jo-si-ah. What do you mean?”
“Why you want me to mix myself up in this miserable scandal over a wretched, frivolous, heartless wench, spend my hard-earned money, and let you go off on a sort of wild goose chase with her and Claire Denville. I thought you had found out that she really was my own flesh and blood.”
Mrs Barclay wiped her eyes, and indulged in one of her laughs—a blancmange sort of laugh—as she sat back in the chair vibrating and undulating all over, while her husband watched her with the most uncompromising of aspects till she rose.
“What a man you are,” she said at last. “But there, don’t let’s waste time. You will help us, dear, won’t you?”
“Us?”
“Yes; us, Josiah. Don’t you think what I have proposed is the best?”
“Well, yes,” he said slowly. “I do not think I could suggest anything better.”
“I am glad,” she said. “Then send Joseph at once, and take three seats for London.”