Vi said nothing; possibly because she had nothing to say. She surveyed the object in front of her with looks which were a blend of pity, curiosity, and, unless I err, disgust. She had, perhaps, more than her share of the severity of youth, and I knew what she had thought of the man she supposed herself to be looking at. He spoke to her, with the same request which he had made to Reggie.
'Come--closer; lean--down.'
I believe that Vi rebelled; but when Edith touched her on the shoulder she did as he asked. Whereupon he went through the same performance with which he had favoured Reggie; putting up his hand, and examining her features with his finger-tips.
'You're a pretty girl--but ---- hard.'
It was not surprising that the blood flamed through her skin, although, saving the perhaps unnecessary vigour of the adjective, the thing was true enough. When she likes she can be as hard as nails.
'Why don't you--marry--Reggie?'
'I'm going to, when you're dead.'
I fancy, in her impetuous fashion, that the words were out of her mouth before she was able to stop them. They were out, anyhow; creating a small sensation. It is a common feeling that a deathbed, even of such a character as Twickenham had been, is a place where one ought only to say sentimental and, also, agreeable things; especially young women. One wants to keep the clear, dry light of truth outside. Vi turned white; then red again. Reggie endeavoured to insinuate her hand in his; by way, perhaps, of expressing his sympathy. But she would have none of it. She took her hand away. The sick man's comment showed that his wits moved pretty quickly.
'A nice--wife--you'll make him. He'll be married--and done for--when he's got you.'
Unmistakably a retort quivered on the young lady's tongue. Edith, slipping her arm about her, restrained its utterance.