“You are well met, sir,” he returned. “And you, miss. Could you point a person out for me, I want? I don’t understand these places.”
Turning as he spoke and making an easy way for us, he stopped when we were out of the press in a corner behind a great red curtain.
“There’s a little cracked old woman,” he began, “that—”
I put up my finger, for Miss Flite was close by me, having kept beside me all the time and having called the attention of several of her legal acquaintance to me (as I had overheard to my confusion) by whispering in their ears, “Hush! Fitz Jarndyce on my left!”
“Hem!” said Mr. George. “You remember, miss, that we passed some conversation on a certain man this morning? Gridley,” in a low whisper behind his hand.
“Yes,” said I.
“He is hiding at my place. I couldn’t mention it. Hadn’t his authority. He is on his last march, miss, and has a whim to see her. He says they can feel for one another, and she has been almost as good as a friend to him here. I came down to look for her, for when I sat by Gridley this afternoon, I seemed to hear the roll of the muffled drums.”
“Shall I tell her?” said I.
“Would you be so good?” he returned with a glance of something like apprehension at Miss Flite. “It’s a providence I met you, miss; I doubt if I should have known how to get on with that lady.” And he put one hand in his breast and stood upright in a martial attitude as I informed little Miss Flite, in her ear, of the purport of his kind errand.
“My angry friend from Shropshire! Almost as celebrated as myself!” she exclaimed. “Now really! My dear, I will wait upon him with the greatest pleasure.”