“Oh no, my dear,” said Mrs Luttrell innocently; “it was because you seemed to come among us so like a son, and took to the doctor’s way with his garden, and were so nice with Millicent. I used to think that perhaps you two might—Oh, dear me,” she cried, checking herself suddenly, “what a tongue I have got! Pray don’t take any notice of what I say.”
There was no change in Christie Bayle’s countenance, for the smile hid the pang he suffered as he took in the pleasant garrulous old lady to supper; but that night he paced his room till daybreak, fighting a bitter fight, and asking for strength to bear the agony of his heart.
Volume One—Chapter Twelve.
James Thickens is Mysterious.
“I think, previous to taking this step, Sir Gordon, I may ask if you and Mr Dixon are quite satisfied? I believe the books show a state of prosperity.”
“That does us credit, Mr Hallam,” said Sir Gordon quietly. “Yes, Mr Dixon bids me say that he is perfectly satisfied—eh, Mr Trampleasure?”
“Quite, Sir Gordon—more than satisfied,” replied Mr Trampleasure, who was standing with his hands beneath his coat-tails, balancing himself on toe and heel, and bowing as he spoke with an air that he believed to be very impressive.
“Then, before we close this little meeting, I suppose it only remains for me to ask you if you have any questions to ask of the firm, any demands to make?” Hallam rose from behind the table covered with books and balance-sheets in the manager’s room of the bank, placed his hand in his breast, and in a quiet, dignified way, replied: