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He liked Forrester The man was a bachelor and of about his, Jimmie Dale's, own age, and had always appeared to be a decent, clean-lived fellow, a man who worked hard, and was apparently pushing his way, if not meteorically, at least steadily up to the top, a man who was respected and well-thought of by everybody and yet just what did it mean?
I left home an hour ago, but was beguiled by some fascinating bargains in Butterworth's windows. Do see that love of a thing for ninety-eight cents. Did you ever see such a bargain? I wouldn't let them send it for I wanted you to see it." The fascinating trifle was admired, and then Miss Forrester flew at the chief matter of her visit enthusiastically. "Do you know what is in the wind, Winifred?
She went up to her gaudy room and shut the door, standing for a moment leaning against it, her hands in her favourite position, on her hips. What was she to do now? Would Forrester refuse to have her so summarily turned out of his house? She did not see how he could very well go against his wife's wishes. For the first time the gaudiness of the room irritated her.
There we unpinned and shook ourselves, and arranged our features before the glass into a sweet and gracious company-face; and then, bowing backwards with "After you, ma'am," we allowed Mrs Forrester to take precedence up the narrow staircase that led to Miss Barker's drawing-room.
She had been jealous of Peg, and now that Peg was dead, it would not help her at all. Forrester had done with her. She had seen it in his eyes last night, heard it in his voice. Mr. Shawyer came back from the window and looked down at her very kindly. "Surely it is worth sacrificing a little pride to win a great happiness," he said.
Forrester, leaning beside the door of the tower, turned the great pegs of a Chinese lute. The notes tinkled like a mandolin, but with now and then an alien wail, a lament unknown to the West. "Sing for us," begged the dark-eyed girl; "a native song." The other smiled, and bending forward as if to recollect, began in a low voice, somewhat veiled, but musical and full of meaning.
She hardly spoke, but Gregory perceived that she was by no means shy. She so pleasantly engaged his attention that when Sir Alliston got up from his seat next hers there was another motive than the mere wish to speak to his old friend in his intention of joining Mrs. Forrester for a few moments.
By a natural transition of his feelings, his imagination recurred to the traditions connected with his family, and the dreadful curse which had been uttered by one on whom his ancestor was said to have heaped injury to the very extinction of reason and associating as he did Matilda's visit to the Cottage at Detroit, on the memorable night when he had unconsciously saved the life of Colonel Forrester, with the fact of her having previously knelt and prayed upon the grave that was known to cover the ashes of the unhappy maniac, Ellen Halloway, he felt a shuddering conviction that she was in some way connected with that wretched woman.
He was unbuttoning Milton's shirt as he spoke, and feeling for his heart. "He's alive!" exclaimed Forrester, who was holding Milton's wrist. "Yes, thank God! But I don't like that!" pointing to Milton's left leg. "It's broken!" cried Forrester. "Poor old Milt!" Poor old Milt, indeed!
Sir Godfrey was the first to speak in a stern tone of voice, as he looked straight in Colonel Forrester's eyes. "May I ask, sir," he said, "in which direction you are going?" "No, sir," was the calm reply. "You have no right to make such a demand." "Then I will address you in a more friendly spirit, Colonel Forrester.
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