“You know best of course, but I thought you might, maybe,” answered Harry, stretching himself with an imperfect yawn.
“No,” said Charles, looking down with a flush.
“She never heard anything about it at any time, then?—and mind, my dear fellow, I’m only asking. You know much better than me what’s best to be done; but the old brute will give you trouble, I’m afeard. She’ll be writing letters, and maybe printing things; but you don’t take in the papers here, so it won’t come so much by surprise like.”
“Alice knows nothing of it. She never heard of her,” said Charles.
“I wish she may have heard as little of Alice,” said Harry.
“Why, you don’t mean to say”—began Charles, and stopped.
“I think the woman has got some sort of a maggot in her head. I think she has, more than common, and you’ll find I’m right.”
Charles got up and stood at the window for a little.
“I can’t guess what you mean, Harry. I don’t know what you think. Do tell me, if you have any clear idea, what is she thinking of?”
“I don’t know what to think, and upon my soul that one’s so deep,” said Harry. “But I’d bet something she’s heard more than we’d just like about this, and if so, there’ll be wigs on the green.”