“Yes, Fred Bingham,” he concluded, “deuced few fellows would have got, as you have, out of about as nasty a scrape as a man could want to get into. Made it turn out all to my advantage; why, I might have tried, and schemed, and flattered the old man, and listened to his endless stories about India, and at most I should only have shared with Frank. Now I am as good as certain of it all. I am a lucky fellow,”—and here he gave a penny to a beggar-woman, who looked after him and blessed him for a pleasant-looking young gentleman—“very lucky; to think of old Walker never mentioning my name! That was a fluke indeed! Savage old brute, who would have thought it of him? Poor Carry.” And here the smile passed away from his face, and he went on angrily, “A little idiot, I would have made her comfortable, and settled her in some snug little place, and she upsets the whole thing. She must have known I never meant to marry her, and why the deuce she could not have done as other girls do, and made the best of it, I can't make out. Instead of that she nearly ruins me. Bah! what fools women are,” and he gave a savage cut with his cane at a dog who was asleep by the railings by the side of the footway. The dog leapt up with a sharp yell, and Fred Bingham went on relieved, and rather liking than otherwise the curses and threats which the dog's master, a little boy with matches, shouted after him.
The letter was delivered to Frank as he was sitting with his wife after dinner.
“Here is the answer, Katie, sealed with the family crest in due form,” and he tore the paper so as not to destroy the seal, with the intention of showing the crest to her. “By Jove!” he exclaimed, angrily, “this is too bad, Katie; he has sent back my letter unopened, without a word.”
Katie's face flushed up, and she was about to burst out indignantly, but seeing by her husband's face that he was grieved as well as angry, she only said,—
“Never mind, Frank, it is no use our worrying ourselves about it; you can do nothing more after this refusal to hear you. We have a good conscience, dear, and can afford to wait. As you said at first, Frank, there can be no doubt that your uncle has worried himself so much about the upset of his plans for you to marry that Miss Heathcote, that he has really gone a little out of his mind about it. Perhaps it is a pity you did not do as he wanted you to,” and she looked up maliciously at Frank.