"You don't care for me a bit."
He kissed her again.
She waited on him at breakfast, which, as he had forewarned her, he had unusually early. She was his landlady's daughter; her name was Mabel Joyce. Among his letters was one from Stella Austin. He opened it as she placed before him his bacon and eggs; as he glanced at Stella's opening lines Miss Joyce talked.
"So you went to Brighton yesterday--by the Pullman, too."
He looked up at her as if surprised.
"Did I? Who told you that?"
"Didn't you?"
class="normal""You say I did. Pray, from what quarter did you get your information?"
"Oh, there are plenty of quarters from which I can get information--when I like. And your uncle was in Brighton. It doesn't look as if he had a very pleasant day there, as he committed suicide in the train on the way back to town. I dare say you had a pleasanter day than he did."
"I presume you got that information either from this morning's paper or else from listening last night outside the door."