"I say, Dorothy, you oughtn't to be facetious before Miss Marsh. She was
extremely attached to Aunt Louisa."

"Oh, what nonsense!" jeered Mrs. Wickham, throwing herself pettishly
into a chair. "I find it's always a very good rule to judge people by
oneself, and I'm positive she was just longing for the old lady to die."

"She was awfully upset at the end, you know that yourself."

"Nerves! Men are so idiotic. They never understand that there are tears
_and_ tears. I cried myself, and Heaven knows I didn't regret her
death."

"My dear Dorothy, you oughtn't to say that."

"Why not?" retorted his wife. "It's perfectly true. Aunt Louisa was a
detestable person and no one would have stood her for a minute if she
hadn't had money. I can't see the use of being a hypocrite _now_ that it
can't make any difference either way. Oh, why doesn't that man hurry
up!" She resumed once more her impatient walk about the room.

"I wish Wynne would come," said her husband, glad to change the subject,
particularly as he felt that he had failed to be very impressive. "It'll
be beastly inconvenient if we miss that train," he finished, glancing
again at his watch.

"And another thing," said Mrs. Wickham, turning sharply as she reached
the end of the room, "I don't trust that Miss Marsh. She looks as if she
knew what was in the will."