THE AMERICAN
of this preconcerted interview, in an extraordinary place, with a free-spoken millionaire. All his native shrewdness admonished him that his part was simply to let her take her time—let the charm of the occasion work. So he said nothing; he only bent on her his large benevolence while she nursed her lean elbows. "My lady once did me a great wrong," she went on at last. "She has a terrible tongue when she's put out. It was many a year ago, but I've never forgotten it. I've never mentioned it to a human creature; I've kept my grudge to myself. I dare say I've been wicked, but my grudge has grown old with me. It has grown good for nothing too, I dare say; but it has lived and lived, as I myself have lived. It will die when I die—not before!"
"And what is your grudge, Mrs. Bread?" Newman blandly enquired.
Mrs. Bread dropped her eyes and hesitated. "If I were a foreigner, sir, I should make less of telling you; it comes harder to a decent Englishwoman. But I sometimes think I've picked up too many foreign ways. What I was telling you belongs to a time when I was much younger and of a quite different appearance altogether to what I am now. I had a very high colour, sir, if you can believe it; indeed I was a very smart lass. My lady was younger too, and the late Marquis was youngest of all—I mean in the way he went on, sir; he had a very high, bold spirit; he was a very grand gentleman. He was fond of his pleasure, like most foreigners, and it must be owned he sometimes went rather below him to take it. My lady was often jealous, and if you 'll
444
