"Why, you look as much frightened as if I asked you to commit a crime; you marvellous old fool, you hardly think me mad enough for that?"
"I hardly know, Mr. Verney, what I think," said Dixie, looking with a horrible helplessness into his face.
"Good God! sir; it can't be anything wrong?"
"Come, come, sir; you're more than half asleep. Do you dare to think I'd commit myself to any man, by such an idiotic proposal? No one but a lunatic could think of blasting himself, as you—but you can't suppose it. Do listen, and understand if you can; my wife, to whom you married me, is dead, six months ago she died; I tell you she's dead."
"Dear me! I'm very much pained, and I will say shocked; the deceased lady, I should not, my dear pupil, have alluded to, of course; but need I say, I never heard of that affliction?"
"How on earth could you? You don't suppose, knowing all you do, I'd put it in the papers among the deaths?"
"No, dear me, of course," said the Rev. Isaac Dixie, hastily bringing his dressing-gown again together. "No, certainly."
"I don't think that sort of publication would answer you or me. You forget it is two years ago and more, a good deal more. I don't though, and whatever you may, I don't want my uncle to know anything about it."
"But, you know, I only meant, you hadn't told me; my dear Mr. Verney, my honoured pupil, you will see—don't you perceive how much is involved; but this—couldn't you put this upon some one else? Do—do think."
"No, in no one's power, but yours, Dixie;" and Cleve took his hand, looking in his face, and wrung it so hard that the rev. gentleman almost winced under the pressure, of administering which I dare say Cleve was quite unconscious. "No one but you."