“Not so much as I could have wished, Denton, but what is it?”
“Can’t you do something, sir?”
“Something, Denton?”
“Something to persuade my poor dear young mistress; to alter her mind. There, sir,” cried the old woman, changing her tone from one of pleading to one of anger and dislike, “I’d sooner see the poor child in her grave than Master George’s wife.”
The old lawyer looked at her gravely for a few moments, and was about to speak out as he felt, but directly after, with the cultivated caution of his profession, he said slowly: “We must see, Mrs Denton—we must see.”
Then, swallowing his coffee at a draught, he set down the cup, and placing his hands behind him, as if to preserve his balance, he left the room.
Denton stood looking after him till he was gone, and then turned, and gazed up at the portrait.
“Oh, master,” she half sobbed, “you ought to have known better—you ought to have known better. She’ll marry him unless something is done, and all to please you.”
Tea was on the way soon after, and, forgetful of the coffee he had just swallowed, the old lawyer took a cup, and wandered all over the room with it, pausing thoughtfully to stir it in different corners, his brain busy the while.
At last he laid the spoon in the saucer, and was raising the cup to sip the half-cold contents, when there was a sharp ring at the great gate-bell.