"Here he is, I expect."

"The suspense is too awful."

"Pull yourself together, old girl," said Wickham, patting his wife
encouragingly on the shoulder. "And I say, look a bit dismal. After all,
we've just come from a funeral."

Mrs. Wickham gave a sort of suppressed wail. "Oh, I'm downhearted
enough, Heaven knows."

"Mr. Wynne, sir," said Kate from the doorway.

Mr. Wynne, the late Miss Wickham's solicitor, was a jovial, hearty man,
tallish, bald and ruddy-looking. In his spare time he played at being a
country gentleman. He had a fine, straightforward eye and a direct
manner that inspired one with confidence. He was dressed in
complimentary mourning, but for the moment his natural hearty manner
threatened to get the better of him.

"Helloa," he said, holding out his hand to Wickham. But the sight of
Mrs. Wickham, seated on the sofa dejectedly enough, recalled to him that
he should be more subdued in the presence of such genuine grief. He
crossed the room to take Dorothy's hand solemnly.

"I didn't have an opportunity of shaking hands with you at the
cemetery."

"How do you do," she said rather absently.