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That now, eleven years after Louis Champney's death, she should contemplate the introduction into her perfectly ordered household of a child, an alien, was a revelation of appalling moment to Octavius. He scouted the idea that she would enter the house as an assistant. None was needed; and, moreover, those small hands could accomplish little in the next ten years. She meant to adopt her then!
And looking into those eyes, that were incapable of insincerity, that, in the present instance, attempted to veil nothing, the priest read all that of which, six years ago on that never to be forgotten November night in New York, he had had premonition. "My daughter is it because of Champney's prospective return within a year that you feel you cannot remain longer with us?"
It was filled with anticipations of the yachting cruise, of a later visit to Flamsted, of Champney and her friends. Champney's name occurred many times, Alice's attitude towards the possessor of it seemed to be that of private ownership, but everything was written with the frankness of an accepted publicity of the fact that Mr. Googe was one of her social appendages.
The priest took note of it. "I haven't made up my mind;" he spoke slowly; then, smiling merrily into the other's face, "and I came up here to try to make it up." "And I was here so you couldn't do it, of course!" Father Honoré exclaimed so ruefully that Champney's hearty laugh rang out. "No, no; I didn't mean for you to take it in that way.
Champney Googe, are yer mad with me?" To Champney's delight, he heard an added note of anxiety. He bowed his head lower over the banjo case and in silence renewed his simulated struggle to slip that instrument into it. "Champney! Are yer rale mad with me?" There was no mistaking the earnestness of this appeal. He made no answer, but chuckled inwardly at the audacity of the address.
Champney's sitting-room, although she would have preferred the public dining-room. Mr. Champneys was an abstemious man, but the girl was frankly greedy with the naïve greed of one who had been heretofore stinted. She had seldom had what she really craved, and at best she had never had enough of it.
Whether he did or did not believe Champney's story, whether it was only the jealous exaggeration of a rival, or Miss Sally was actually deceiving them both, his position had become intolerable.
"Please God it may be so." They walked slowly homewards to The Bow in the clear warm dark of the midsummer-night. They had much to say to each other, and often they lingered on the way. They lingered again when they came to the gate by the paddock in the lane. Aileen looked towards the house. A light was burning in Mrs. Champney's room. "I'm afraid Mrs. Champney must be much worse.
She interrupted him again, a sneering smile on her lips: "You know as well as I, Octavius Buzzby, what Mr. Champney's will was too feeble a thing to place dependence on for any length of time; if he said that, he didn't mean it not as you think he did," she added in a tone that sent a shiver along Octavius' spine.
She was studying the profile of the girl's flushed and sunburned face. Aileen had just said good night and was about to leave Mrs. Champney's room. She turned quickly to face her. She spoke with sharp emphasis: "I did not meet your nephew at the sheds, Mrs.
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