“Oh! in attendance at the sick bed?” inquired the matron, with proper awe.
“No—no; not that I know of; but a very old friend of my aunt’s.”
“I see—I understand—and he and your aunt would unite their influence to reconcile you.”
“Oh, my quarrel, as we’ve been calling it, is with my aunt.”
“Oh! oh!—I see, and your father has taken it up?” suggested Mrs. Kincton Knox, promptly.
“My father’s dead,” said William, with the gravity becoming such an announcement.
“Oh! dear me!—I’m shocked to think I should—I beg your pardon. I ought to have anticipated. You have, I assure you, my deep sympathy—all our sympathies. I do recollect now having heard something of his illness; but, dear! oh, dear! What a world it is.”
William could only bow, with his former seriousness. It was more than twenty years since his excellent father had deceased; and though he could not remember, Mrs. Kincton Knox very well might, an event of that date. Still the fervour of her surprise and her sympathy were, considering all things, a little uncalled for.
“The rupture, then, is with your aunt—dear me! you must have wonderful self-command, admirable—admirable, in so young a person.” A brief pause followed this oracular speech.
“And your aunt is married?” inquired Mrs. Kincton Knox.