The news brings a lump into the throat of the person addressed, for, like most of his acquaintances, Mrs. Darcy had been fond of fine, plucky, upstanding Bill Campion. It is a minute or two before she can dress her sympathy in enough composure to say—
“And, of course, that upset him very much?”
“No; he was not upset,” replies Lavinia, a sort of hopeless pity in voice and look. “He is never upset; it would be much better for him if he were—and for us.”
“Yes, poor fellow!”
“I was afraid that we should have a dreadful dinner,” continues Lavinia, with the relieved expansiveness of perfect intimacy addressing perfect comprehension. “I was afraid he would have one of his attacks of hating us for being alive!”
“He never hates you for being alive.”
“Well, ‘us’ means Rupert, and Rupert means ‘us;’ you know that.”
There is more of loyalty than grammar in the creed expressed; but as to the staunchness of the believer’s faith there can be no two opinions.
“Yes, I know.”
If a faint wonder tempers the acquiescence of the hearer, it does not reach her companion’s ear.