“It was wrong,” said the old gentleman in a milder tone, “very wrong. It was romantic, unbusinesslike, foolish.”

“It was my fault; all my fault, Sir,” replied poor Arabella, weeping.

“Nonsense,” said the old gentleman; “it was not your fault that he fell in love with you, I suppose? Yes it was, though,” said the old gentleman, looking rather slyly at Arabella. “It was your fault. He couldn’t help it.”

This little compliment, or the little gentleman’s odd way of paying it, or his altered manner⁠—so much kinder than it was, at first⁠—or all three together, forced a smile from Arabella in the midst of her tears.

“Where’s your husband?” inquired the old gentleman, abruptly; stopping a smile which was just coming over his own face.