"
"I loved him ridiculously, absurdly, with my whole heart," cries FLORA,
not altogether liking what she has heard. "I'm real sorry, too, that
they think somebody has killed him."
Mr, BUMSTEAD folds his brown linen arms as he towers before her, and the
dark circles around his eyes appear to shrink with the intensify of his
gaze.
"There are occasions in life," he remarks, "when to acknowledge that our
last meeting with a friend, who has since mysteriously disappeared, was
to reject him and imply a preference for his uncle, may be calculated to
associate us unpleasantly with that disappearance, in the minds of the
censorious, and invite suspicions tending to our early cross-examination
by our Irish local magistrate. I do not say, of course, that you
actually destroyed my nephew for fear he should try to prejudice me
against you; but I cannot withhold my earnest approval of your judicious
pretence of a sentiment palpably incompatible with the shedding of the
blood of its departed object. If you will move your dress a little, so
that I can sit beside you and allow your head to rest upon my shoulder,
that fan will do for both of us, and we may converse in whispers."
"My head upon _your_ shoulder!" exclaims Miss POTTS, staring swiftly
about to see if anybody is looking. "I prefer to keep my head upon my
own shoulders, sir."
"Two heads are better than one," the Ritualistic organist reminds her.
"If a little hair-oil and powder _does_ come off upon my coat, the
latter will wash, I suppose.
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