“I am not rich, Mrs. Hibbert,” he said. The manner in which he repeated her name at the end of every sentence irritated Florence.
“And oh, Mr. Wimple,” she went on, “it is so—so absurd.” But he said nothing, though she waited. “It is so strange, and Walter will be very angry.”
“It is not Walters affair, Mrs. Hibbert, it is mine,” he said.
“And hers, and Aunt Anne’s too.”
“And hers,” he repeated.
“And she is old, she wants comforts and luxury; and oh, I cannot bear to think of it. It seems cruel.”
“We have talked it all over, Mrs. Hibbert; she knows best herself what she wants,” he answered, without the slightest change in his manner.
“But are you really in love with her?”
“I am very fond of her,” he said blankly.
Florence put her hand to her throat to steady her utterance.