“I’m sorry I swore,” he said. “Bad habit! The Major’s here—you know that?” and he assumed the Major’s voice, and strutted in imitation of the stalwart marine. “Major—a—Strike! of the Royal Marines! returned from China! covered with glory!—a hero, Van! We can’t expect him to be much of a mourner. And we shan’t have him to dine with us to-day—that’s something.” He sank his voice: “I hope the widow’ll bear it.”
“I hope to God my mother is well!” Evan groaned.
“That’ll do,” said Mr. Andrew. “Don’t say any more.”
As he spoke, he clapped Evan kindly on the back.
A message was brought from the ladies, requiring Evan to wait on them. He returned after some minutes.
“How do you think Harriet’s looking?” asked Mr. Andrew. And, not waiting for an answer, whispered,
“Are they going down to the funeral, my boy?”
Evan’s brow was dark, as he replied: “They are not decided.”
“Won’t Harriet go?”
“She is not going—she thinks not.”