Gertrude glanced uneasily at the door, and wondered whether Mrs Denton was near. Then she heard a sigh come from beneath the table, and felt comforted, for there was help at hand.
Saul laughed as he interpreted her looks rightly.
“What a silly little bird it is,” he said banteringly, “pretending to be afraid of me on purpose to lead me on. There, I apologise for being so rough that day. I ought to have approached you more gently, but it is your fault—you are so pretty and enticing. Why, what a terrible look!”
“I have no right to forbid you this house, Mr Harrington,” said Gertrude coldly, “but I must beg of you not to refer to that terrible day again. I cannot bear it.”
“Stuff!”
“I cannot keep back the feeling that your presence shortened my poor uncle’s life.”
“You’re a little goose, Gertie,” said Saul contemptuously. “The old man threw himself into a passion about nothing, and he paid the penalty.”
Gertrude shook her head as she took up some work so as to avoid looking at the man lolling before her in an easy-chair.
“Why, you little sceptic,” cried Saul laughingly. “It was a foregone conclusion that he would pop off some day in a fit of temper—because there were no coals in the scuttle, or his beef-tea was too hot. I happened to be there, and you blame me. That’s all.”
“Pray say no more.”