“Dunno so much about your Mary, but that’s what he says,” replied Billy, composedly.
“When—when did he write—eh?” I cried.
“’Ow do I know?” retorted Billy, who evidently misunderstood and failed to appreciate my agitated manner.
“I aren’t arsked ’im. Arst ’im yourself if you want to know.”
And he drew himself up in evident dudgeon.
I didn’t know what to do. It was no time to denounce or lament. The thought of the poor innocent girl receiving such a letter as Masham would be likely to write was too much to endure. If only I could prevent her seeing it!
“When did you hear all this?” I said to Billy.
“Find out. ’Tain’t no concern of yourn,” said the offended hero.
“But, Billy,” said I, “it’s most important. Do you, know that what Masham has done will make your Mr Smith miserable?”
Billy started at this.