Mr. Fraser winced visibly.
“What is the matter? have you got a headache?”
“Nothing, only a twinge here,” and he pointed to his heart.
Angela looked alarmed; she took a womanly interest in anybody’s ailments.
“I know what it is,” she said. “Widow James suffers from it. You must take it in hand at once, or it will become chronic after meals, as hers is.”
Mr. Fraser smiled grimly as he answered:
“I am afraid that I have neglected it too long—it has become chronic already. But about Madeira; have you, then, made up your mind to go?”
“Yes, I think that I shall go. If he—is married, you know—I can always come back again, and perhaps Pigott is right; the letter might miscarry, and there is so much at stake.”
“When shall you go, then?”
“By the next steamer, I suppose. They go every week, I think. I will tell my father that I am going to-morrow.”