“I venture on my present intrusion,” he began, “in consequence of a statement recently made to me, in my office, by Mrs. Gallilee.”
“Stop!” cried Benjulia. “I don’t like your beginning, I can tell you. Is it necessary to mention the name of that old—?” He used a word, described in dictionaries as having a twofold meaning. (First, “A female of the canine kind.” Second, “A term of reproach for a woman.”) It shocked Mr. Mool; and it is therefore unfit to be reported.
“Really, Doctor Benjulia!”
“Does that mean that you positively must talk about her?”
Mr. Mool smiled. “Let us say that it may bear that meaning,” he answered.
“Go on, then—and get it over. She made a statement in your office. Out with it, my good fellow. Has it anything to do with me?”
“I should not otherwise, Doctor Benjulia, have ventured to present myself at your house.” With that necessary explanation, Mr. Mool related all that had passed between Mrs. Gallilee and himself.
At the outset of the narrative, Benjulia angrily laid aside his pipe, on the point of interrupting the lawyer. He changed his mind; and, putting a strong constraint on himself, listened in silence. “I hope, sir,” Mr. Mool concluded, “you will not take a hard view of my motive. It is only the truth to say that I am interested in Miss Carmina’s welfare. I felt the sincerest respect and affection for her parents. You knew them too. They were good people. On reflection you must surely regret it, if you have carelessly repeated a false report? Won’t you help me to clear the poor mother’s memory of this horrid stain?”
Benjulia smoked in silence. Had that simple and touching appeal found its way to him? He began very strangely, when he consented at last to open his lips.
“You’re what they call, a middle-aged man,” he said. “I suppose you have had some experience of women?”