"Stop an odious old woman!—why, who ever did? Upon my honour, I know no way but to kill her," chuckled the Baronet.
Lady Jane deigned no reply.
"Come here, Dives, and sit by me," croaked the old lady, beckoning him with her thin, long finger. "I've hardly seen you since I came."
"Very happy, indeed—very much obliged to you, Lady Alice, for wishing it."
And the natty but somewhat forbidding-looking Churchman sat himself down in a prie-dieu chair vis-à-vis to the old gentlewoman, and folded his hands, expecting her exordium.
"Do you remember, Sir Harry, your father?"
"Oh, dear, yes. I recollect my poor father very well. We were at Oxford then or just going. How old was I?—pretty well out of my teens."
It must be observed that they sat in a confidential proximity—nobody listened—nobody cared to approach.
"You remember when he died, poor man?"
"Yes—poor father!—we were at home—Jekyl and I—for the holidays—I believe it was—a month or so. The Bishop, you know, was with him."