"Oh," she exclaimed, "it is you. I have telegraphed for Arthur. I
have--telegraphed for Arthur."
"Why?"
She gave a nervous, almost a guilty little laugh, and looked at him with
puzzled discomfort.
"Why?" he repeated, looking at her with a cold scrutiny much dreaded of
the parish ne'er-do-wells.
"Oh, well," she replied, "it is only natural that I should want him at
home in such a time as this--such a terrible affliction. Besides--"
"Besides," suggested the Rector imperturbably, "he is now master of
Stagholme."
"Yes!" she said, with a simulated surprise which would scarcely have
deceived the most guileless Sunday-school teacher. "I had not thought of
that. I suppose something must be done at once--those horrid lawyers
again."
Her eyes were dancing with breathless excitement. To this woman
excitement even in the form of a death was better than nothing. The
bourgeois mind, with its love of a Crystal Palace, a subscription dance,
or even a parochial bazaar, was unquenchable even after years of practice
as the county lady of position.
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