The result was, that he carried off the stranger to his handsome house, just outside the town, and soon after Archibald Graves was making himself quite at home, drinking the school-patron’s sherry, smoking his cigars, and getting moment by moment more fluent of tongue, and ready to lay bare the secrets of his heart, if secrets the facts could be called that he was prepared to make known to any one who would talk.
“Has he gone, Bill?” said Miss Burge, entering the drawing-room about eight o’clock that evening, and finding her brother standing before a glass and sprinkling himself with scent.
“Yes, he went a good hour ago.” And the speaker looked very solemn, and uttered a deep sigh.
“I wouldn’t disturb you, dear, at church time, as you had company; but, Bill dear—oh, how nice you smell!” and she rested her hands on his shoulders and reached up to kiss him.
“Do I, Betsey?”
“Lovely, dear; but do tell me what he said about Miss Thorne.”
Her brother’s forehead seemed to have gone suddenly into the corrugated iron business, as he turned his eyes upon his sister.
“He said—he said—”
“Yes, dear; please go on.”