“How silly of him!” she said, softly. “I hope he won’t catch cold. What did you say?”
“I was coughing,” said Mr. Mott, hastily.
“You’ll get cold if you’re not careful,” said his thoughtful niece. “That’s the worst of men, they never seem to have any thought. Did he seem angry, or mournful, or what? I suppose you couldn’t see his face?”
“I didn’t try,” said Mr. Mott, crisply. “Good night.”
By the morning his ill-humour had vanished, and he even became slightly facetious over the events of the night. The mood passed at the same moment that Mr. Hurst passed the window.
“Better have him in and get it over,” he said, irritably.
Miss Garland shuddered.
“Never!” she said, firmly. “He’d be down on his knees. It would be too painful. You don’t know him.”
“Don’t want to,” said Mr. Mott.
He finished his breakfast in silence, and, after a digestive pipe, proposed a walk. The profile of Mr. Hurst, as it went forlornly past the window again, served to illustrate Miss Garland’s refusal.