"What, after he's married the shallow girl?"
"Yes," said Miss Liston.
"Rather too late, isn't it? At least, if you mean there is to be a
happy ending."
Miss Liston enlaced her fingers.
"I haven't decided about the ending yet," said she.
"If you're intent to be tragical--which is the fashion--you'll do as
you stand," said I.
"Yes," she answered slowly, "if I'm tragical, I shall do as I stand."
There was another pause, and rather a long one; the wheels of the
carriage were audible on the gravel of the front drive. Miss Liston
stood up. I rose and held out my hand.
"Of course," said Miss Liston, still intent on her novel, "I could----"
She stopped again, and looked apprehensively at me. My face, I believe,
expressed nothing more than polite attention and friendly interest.
"Of course," she began again, "the shallow girl--his wife--might--might
die, Mr. Wynne."
"In novels," said I with a smile, "while there's death, there's hope."
"Yes, in novels," she answered, giving me her hand.
The poor little woman was very unhappy. Unwisely, I dare say, I
pressed her hand. It was enough, the tears leaped to her eyes; she
gave my great fist a hurried squeeze--I have seldom been more touched
by any thanks, how ever warm or eloquent--and hurried away.