“Money!—d—n money—curse it! I wish I had a lot of it!” and William clutched the poker, but the fire did not want poking, and he gave it a rather vicious knock upon the bar, which startled Miss Perfect, and recalled his own thoughts from unprofitable speculations, upon the preposterous injustice of Fate, and some ultimate state of poetical compensation, in which scholars and men of mind, who played all sorts of games excellently, and noodles, who never did anything decently—in fact, he and Trevor—would be dealt with discriminately, and with common fairness.
“Don’t, dear William, pray, make such a clatter. I’m so nervous.”
“I beg a thousand pardons. I’m so stupid.”
“Well, it does not signify—an accident—but don’t mind touching the fire-irons,” said Miss Perfect; “and how did your walk with Mr. Trevor proceed? Did he talk of anything?”
“Oh! didn’t he? Fifty things. He’s a wonderful fellow to talk, is Trevor,” said William, looking with half-closed eyes into the fire.
“Oh, yes,” persisted Aunt Dinah; “but was there anything—anything particular—anything that could interest us?”
“Next to nothing that could interest anyone,” said William, uncommunicatively.
“Well, it would interest me, if he talked of Violet,” said Aunt Dinah, coming directly to the point. “Did he?”
“Of Violet? Yes, I believe he did,” answered William, rather reluctantly.
“Well, and why did not you say so? Of course, you knew that’s what I meant,” said Miss Perfect.