“But Mr Denville,” cried Mrs Barclay pleadingly; “you ought to know—you must know.”
“Nonsense, madam, nonsense!” cried Denville, with his most artificial manner reigning supreme, as he flicked away a tiny speck of dust from his frill. “We can laugh at these things—we elderly people, and treat them as they deserve.”
“But, Mr Denville—”
“No, dear madam, no; I protest,” he continued, almost playfully.
“Jo-si-ah, time’s flying,” cried Mrs Barclay, in a pathetic manner that was absolutely comic. “What am I to say to this man?”
“Tell him,” said Barclay sternly.
“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs Barclay, with a long sigh, as if she shrank from her task. “It must be done. Dear Mr Denville, I don’t like telling you, but Mrs Burnett—”
Denville reeled, and caught at Barclay’s arm.
“Hold up, old fellow! Be a man,” cried the money-lender, supporting him.
The old man recovered himself, and stood up very erect, turning for a moment resentfully on Barclay, as if angry that he should have dared to touch him. Then, looking fiercely at Mrs Barclay: