This speech—though such is certainly far from the good-natured speaker's intention—stings Burgoyne like a whip-lash.
"I was always fond of her—I always thought her the very best woman in the world; you know!"—with an accent of almost anguished appeal—"that I always thought her the very best woman in the world."
"Oh, yes; of course, I know you did," replies she, astonished and concerned at the evident and extreme distress of his tone. "That is not quite the same thing as being fond of her, is it? But"—with a laugh that is at once uneasy and reassuring—"what does that matter now? Now your fondness for her is as indisputable as Tilburina's madness; and, for my part, I always think people get on quite as well, if not better, afterwards, if they do not begin quite so volcanically."
But her light and well-meant words fail to remove the painful impression from her hearer's mind. Has she, during all these years, been crediting him with a wish for Amelia's death, that she should be so much astonished at his thankfulness for her being given back to him?
"I believe that this illness is the best thing that could have happened to you both," continues Mrs. Byng, feeling uncomfortably that she has not been happy in her choice of a topic, and yet unable to leave it alone. "It will have drawn you so much together: in fact"—again laughing nervously—"I think we are all looking up. As I told you, after the first shock, Willy really was rather glad to see me; and you would not believe how discreetly I handle the burning subject—yes, everything is on the mend, and we are all going to have a lovely time, as the Yankees say!"
CHAPTER XXX.
"The world's a city full of straying streets,
And Death the market-place where each one meets."
The words are scarcely out of Mrs. Byng's mouth before she adds, in a changed key, and with an altered direction of the eyes—