“Indeed—then your next room is untenanted.”
“Yes, sir, it is—more’s the pity.”
“Aye—more’s the pity,” said Gray. “’Tis far better.”
“Better, sir??”
Gray started, for he had uttered his thought loud enough to be heard.
“Nothing—nothing,” he said; “good evening—you can leave these things; I am going to rest.”
“Good night, sir; I do hope as the wind won’t go on howling in this way. It hasn’t come down our chimnies in such a shocking way since we had a death in the house.”
“A death!” cried Gray; “don’t talk to me of deaths, woman—don’t croak to me; I—I—good night—good night.”
“Well I never,” muttered the woman to herself, as she left the room; “he is a very odd man to be sure. One never knows what to say to him.”
“How dare she talk to me of deaths in the house?” muttered Gray, “there is no death in the house—a croaking hag—I am very well—I—I never was better—death—death—I hate the word. Curses on her for putting it in my head. I am exceedingly well to-night—quite strong and well. Let the wind howl—if any one dies it will not be me. No—I am so very—very well.”