“Knew my good heart, did he?” There was a deadly pallor spreading over Sir William’s face that frightened her. For a moment his lips moved without making a sound, then he recovered his voice, “Tell me his name—what is it?”
“William——” she began.
“What is it?” he cried, and his breath came short and quick.
She was too scared to demur any longer.
“It is Alfred Wimple”—and her heart stood still.
He gazed at her for a moment in silence.
“Wimple,” he said—“what, Boughton’s nephew? That skunk he had to turn out of his office?”
“He is Mr. Boughton’s nephew; and he left his uncle’s office because the duties were too arduous for his health.”
“He left his uncle’s office because he was kicked out of it. Do you mean to tell me that you have married him—a man who never did a day’s work in his life, or paid a bill that he owed? And as for writing, I don’t believe one word of it. It’s not a month ago that his uncle told me of some old woman, his landlady, forsooth! who had been to him with a long bill——”
“It was for his professional chambers. A man in his position requires them.”