This conversation took place just before dinner. It was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Briggs, who went upstairs at once to prepare for dinner. Fifteen minutes later they met around the dinner-table. By arrangement with Randolph, Mrs. Briggs had reserved to herself the pleasure of imparting to her husband the news she had heard.
“I have heard some news to-day, Mr. Briggs,” she commenced, in a premonitory tone.
“Indeed, my dear! Pleasant news, I hope.”
“I don’t think it will be pleasant to you, though, I must confess, it is only what I have all along anticipated.”
“You speak in enigmas, Mrs. Briggs. Will you kindly be a little more explicit?”
“You are aware, Mr. Briggs, that I have always had a very unfavorable opinion of your protegé, the Greyson boy?”
“You certainly have not concealed your opinion of him,” said her husband, shrugging his shoulders. “Yes, I may say that I know your opinion of him.”
“I suppose you call it prejudice,” continued the lady.
“Well, it certainly seems like it, not being founded on the knowledge of anything to his detriment.”
“That was not necessary. There is such a thing as reading character. I judged him by his face.”