"I trust," she said, "that he will never live to write another."
Catherine felt as if a knife were thrust into her breast, and even Mark started slightly and looked almost uneasy, as if he fancied that the force of Mrs. Ardagh's desire might accomplish its fulfilment. Only Berrand was undismayed. There was a devil of mischief in him. His eyes of a toad gleamed as he said, turning to Mrs. Ardagh,
"I happen to know that 'William Foster' is writing another book at this very time."
Catherine bent her eyes on her plate. She was tingling with nervous excitement.
"Do you know him, then?" said Mrs. Ardagh, in her fervid, and yet dreary, voice.
"Slightly."
"Then tell him of the dreadful harm he has done."
"What harm?"
Mrs. Ardagh spoke of Jenny Levita. It seemed that she had now fallen into an evil way of life.
"But why should you attribute the folly of a weak girl to William Foster's influence?" said Berrand.