“To be generous, one must sacrifice something.”
“Well?”
“It is true you have sacrificed your curiosity.”
Perdita laughed again. “And that is wise rather than generous, you think? But my curiosity might come to life again some day. By the way, have you any news of Sir Francis?”
“People say of him that ‘he will never be himself again.’ Perhaps that would not be a very hard saying for the best of us. But Bendibow is certainly suffering. He looks old and haggard, and his mind seems out of poise. He is living at his Twickenham place: I have seen him only twice. ’Tis impossible to lift him out of his mood: you cannot fix his attention. I wished to make him agree to the appointment of some capable man to take charge of the bank, but he would listen to nothing. The servants say he is constantly muttering to himself, when he fancies he is alone.”
“Can Sir Francis Bendibow go mad because his son is dead?” interrupted Perdita, leaning back on the sofa and looking at Fillmore with eyes half closed.
“He was very fond of the boy,” replied Fillmore, after a pause: “and possibly the circumstances may have been more disturbing than is generally supposed. ’Tis said that he manifests some peculiarities—” he checked himself.
“Go on!” said Perdita. “My imagination is worse than my curiosity.”
“He disappears, for several hours at a time, generally after dark, without mentioning where he is going.”
“So you consider me wise in not sending for the packet, and opening it?”