“I have not seen her since; not at all,” he answered: and though his words were purposely indifferent, his wife, knowing all his tones and ways by heart, was not deceived. “He is afraid of that woman,” she whispered to herself; “or else afraid of me.” But she said no more.
“Have you come to any definite understanding with Mr. Carradyne in regard to Peacock’s Range, Eliza?”
“He will not come to any; he is civilly obstinate over it. Laughs in my face with the most perfect impudence, and tells me: ‘A man must be allowed to put in his own claim to his own house, when he wants to do so.’”
“Well, Eliza, that seems to be only right and fair. Peveril made no positive agreement with us, remember.”
“Is it right and fair? That may be your opinion, Philip, but it is not mine. We shall see, Mr. Harry Carradyne!”
“Dinner is served, ma’am,” announced the old butler.
That evening passed. Sunday passed, the last day of the dying year; and Monday morning, New Year’s Day, dawned.
New Year’s Day. Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn were seated at the breakfast-table. It was a bright, cold, sunny morning, showing plenty of blue sky. Young Master Walter, in consideration of the day, was breakfasting at their table, seated in his high chair.
“Me to have dinner wid mamma to-day! Me have pudding!”