“Doesn’t he, though? How strange! I always go. Let me see—five hundred and sixty-six is—is—So Mr Lister’s going to be married, eh?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so.”
“That’s right. Everybody should marry when the time comes. You will some day. I hope the lady’s young and rich.”
“She’s beautiful, sir,” I said, with animation, feeling sorry, though, the next moment, for I did not like the idea of this man being so interested in her.
“Is she, though?” he said insidiously. “But you’ve not seen her.”
“Oh yes, sir, more than once.”
“Have you, though? Well, you are favoured. Let me see,” he continued, consulting a little thick book which he took from a drawer. “Seven hundred and fifty and two hundred and—er—er—oh, to be sure, yes; I think I heard who it was to be. Beautiful Miss Wilson, the doctor’s daughter. Let’s see, she’s very poor, though.”
I did not want to say more, but he seemed to lead me on, and get answers from me in an insidious way that I could not combat; and in spite of myself I said:
“No, sir, it is Miss Carr; and she is very rich.”
“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed, staring at me in surprise. “You don’t mean the Carrs of Westmouth Street?”