Claire had struggled up, with her hands upon his shoulders, and was gazing wildly into his eyes.
“What—what do people say?” she panted.
“Be still, little goose—no; pretty little white pigeon,” he said, more softly, as he tried to draw her towards him.
“What—do they say?” she cried, in a hoarse whisper, and she trembled violently.
“Why, that it is a jolly good job the old woman is dead, for she was no use to anyone.”
Claire groaned as she yielded once more to his embrace.
“Fisherman Dick says—I say, he is a close old nut there’s no getting anything out of him!—says he don’t see that people like Lady Teigne are any use in the world.”
“Morton!”
“Oh, it’s all right. I’m only telling you what he said. He says too that the chap who did it—I say, don’t kick out like that, Sis. Yes, I shall go on: I’m doing you good. Fisherman Dick, and Mrs Miggles too, said that I ought to try and rouse you up, and I’m doing it. You’re ever so much better already. Why, your hands were like dabs when I came up, and now they are nice and warm.”
She caressed his cheek with them, and he kissed her as she laid her head on his shoulder.