“Oh, no, sir; only too trustin’ like.”
“Well, well,” says Bertram, much irritated, “Critchett is a thing of the past. We will never speak of him. But why have you come to my rooms, my dear girl? It is not—not quite—correct. Cæsar’s wife you know. But perhaps you never heard of her——”
“No, sir. Who was the lady? I only came to say a word, Mr. Bertram. There aren’t no harm in it, though mother would be angry over the place.”
“If you had sent me a line I would have called on you.”
“You see, sir, mother’s and sister Kate’s at home, they’d hear every word, and I want to speak to you all alone. I won’t be many minutes. I don’t think it’s any harm my comin’, though mother would be fit to kill me if she knew——”
“Your mother is quite right in her views, Annie. Young women cannot be too circumspect.”
“I’m allus circumspec’, sir; and—oh, Lord, Mr. Bertram, what a beautiful string o’ pearls!”
“They were my mother’s, Annie. They will be yours.”
“Mine, sir! Lord, never! The idea of Critchett takin’ them pearls. Why they must be worth thousands and thousands!”
“No, a few hundreds. My mother left these things to me for my wife when I should have one. They are very sacred to me. They will be as dear to you, Annie, I am sure?”