"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.
V.
'TWIXT WILL AND WILL NOT.
I must confess at once that at first, at least, I very much
admired the curate. I am not referring to my admiration of his
fine figure--six feet high and straight as an arrow--nor of his
handsome, open, ingenuous countenance, or his candid blue eye, or
his thick curly hair.
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