Just then Mrs. Ackroyd rustled in, full of apologies for being late.
I am sorry to say I detest Mrs. Ackroyd. She is all chains and teeth and bones. A most unpleasant woman. She has small pale flinty blue eyes, and however gushing her words may be, those eyes of hers always remain coldly speculative.
I went across to her, leaving Flora by the window. She gave me a handful of assorted knuckles and rings to squeeze, and began talking volubly.
Had I heard about Flora’s engagement? So suitable in every way. The dear young things had fallen in love at first sight. Such a perfect pair, he so dark and she so fair.
“I can’t tell you, my dear Dr. Sheppard, the relief to a mother’s heart.”
Mrs. Ackroyd sighed—a tribute to her mother’s heart, whilst her eyes remained shrewdly observant of me.
“I was wondering. You are such an old friend of dear Roger’s. We know how much he trusts to your judgment. So difficult for me—in my position as poor Cecil’s widow. But there are so many tiresome things—settlements, you know—all that. I fully believe that Roger intends to make settlements upon dear Flora, but, as you know, he is just a leetle peculiar about money. Very usual, I’ve heard, amongst men who are captains of industry. I wondered, you know, if you could just sound him on the subject? Flora is so fond of you. We feel you are quite an old friend, although we have only really known you just over two years.”
Mrs. Ackroyd’s eloquence was cut short as the drawing room door opened once more. I was pleased at the interruption. I hate interfering in other people’s affairs, and I had not the least intention of tackling Ackroyd on the subject of Flora’s settlements. In another moment I should have been forced to tell Mrs. Ackroyd as much.
“You know Major Blunt, don’t you, doctor?”