“And are they pushing that on?”
“Yes,” said Fin, “and it’s abominable. It will kill her.”
“No, it won’t!” said Pratt, coolly.
“Then you’re a wretch!” said Fin, with flashing eyes. “I say it will.”
“And I say it won’t,” said Pratt; “because it must never come off.”
Fin stared at him.
“I’ll see to that,” said Pratt, confidently. “I have a friend busy about Master Captain Vanleigh. But, oh!” he exclaimed, as the recollection of one Barnard, solicitor, brought up a gentleman of the name of Mervyn—“but, oh! I say, tell me this, Fin—Mr Mervyn—you know—there wasn’t ever—anything—eh?”
“Oh, you goose!” cried Fin, stamping her foot. “Mr Mervyn—dear Mr Mervyn, of all people in the world!—who used to treat us like as if we were his little girls. Oh, Mr Pratt, I did think you had some sense in your head.”
“Oh no,” said Pratt, solemnly; “never—not a morsel.”
Then they looked at one another, and laughed; but only for Fin to turn preternaturally serious.