“Oh, the risks of getting into debt—living beyond one's means—and things like that.”
“Oh, I see, madam,” and Sheila bowed gravely, although the danger signals were showing now on her cheeks. Then she added very clearly and distinctly, “That would be most dreadful to happen to any one, would it not, Mr. Assheton?”
“Oh, howwible—for a lady.”
“But,” she went on—and as she spoke she gazed so intently into Mrs. Wooler's face that every one at the table saw her change colour—“but I am sure, Mrs. Wooler, that no girl could possibly come to such a sad condition while you are in Townsville, to give her the benefit of your years, your advice, and your experience—even though that advice was thrust upon her in a manner that I believe might possibly cause well-deserved resentment,” and then, with a scornful smile still on her lips, she turned to Mr. Assheton and asked him sweetly if he did not “think it was beginning to be very warm so early in the year?”
“By heavens!” mattered Mallard to Myra, “she has done the parson woman good. Look at her face. It's unpleasant to look at.”
Mrs. Wooler's features were a study. Unable to speak, and her hands trembling with rage, she gave the girl one glance of hatred, and then tried to eat; and Viveash, who had the sense to do so, at once began telling her some idiotic and pointless story about himself when he sang in a cathedral choir until his voice “failed him.”
Just then a long ring was heard at the front door, and the butler presently came to Mallard, and said—
“One of the reporters, sir, from the Champion wishes to see you. Most important, sir, he says. Will you please see him at once?”
Making his excuses, Mallard left the dining-room and went into one of the sitting-rooms, where the reporter was awaiting him.