"I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!" cried Winifred, with difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; "you've acted unfairly. Sir Rowland," he added, in a deep whisper, "do you agree to my terms?" "I do," answered Trenchard, in the same tone. But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and the carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out. The grim mockery of it!—those South Sea loafers, taking advantage of Enschede's Christianity and imposing upon him, accepting his money and medicines and laughing behind his back! No doubt they made the name a byword and a subject for ribald jest in the waterfront bars. "Married!—no—no," replied the woollen-draper. It isn't your duty. Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. I wouldn't allow you to be honest even if you could be so,—which I doubt. But he held the smile until she turned away from the curtain. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—but that wouldn't serve my turn. She’s obsessed with him, you know, totally obsessed. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. But for perfect satisfaction, he must take a peek into the bedroom.
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