“It’s a terrible thing,” said the hostess to the ladies nearest her; “no one ever dares ask the family what the trouble is,—they have such odd, exclusive ideas about their matters being nobody’s business. All that can be known is that they look upon him as worse than dead and gone forever.”
“And who will get the estate?” asked the banker.
“The two girls. They’re both married.”
“They’re very much like their father,” said the hostess, smiling with gentle significance.
“Very much,” echoed the host, with less delicacy. “Their mother is one of those women who stand in terror of their husband’s will. Now, if he were to die and leave her with a will of her own she would hardly know what to do with it—I mean with her will—or the property either.”
The hostess protested softly against so harsh a speech, and the son, after one or two failures, got in his remark:—
“Maybe the prodigal would come back and be taken in.”
But nobody gave this conjecture much attention. The host was still talking of the lady without a will.
“Isn’t she an invalid?” Dr. Sevier had asked.
“Yes; the trip down here last season was on her account,—for change of scene. Her health is wretched.”