“My dear, the man is ill. And he is hard up. I happen to know his Bank has turned him down.”
“Yes, you have good reason to know,” said his wife, with significant emphasis.
“My dear, we won’t speak of——”
“Oh, it is all very well, but you can’t go on like this. Something ought to be done. That man is about desperate. He may do anything some day. And he shuts himself up in that bungalow from everyone except Paul—and that creature, Sleeman.”
“I don’t like that fellow. I don’t trust him,” said the Colonel. “He has the worst sort of influence over poor Gaspard, with his poker and his whiskey.”
“My dear, there will be a tragedy there some day, you mark my words.”
“Oh, nonsense! But what can I do? Why can’t some of you ladies do something for the family?”
“There you are again!” cried his wife, lifting up her hands in despair. “You can’t get near her. She is an Indian through and through, proud, reserved. You can’t patronise her a——”
“But why should you?”
“Well, you know what I mean,” replied his wife impatiently. “Our women went at my solicitation prepared to be quite kind to her. She made them feel—Why, Mrs. Powers said to me, ‘She actually patronised us. Made me feel as if she were quite my equal.’”