"Has she been trying her hand at Mr. Sherringham?"
"When should she try her hand, poor dear young lady? He's always sitting with us," said Mrs. Rooth.
"Dear mamma, you exaggerate. He has his moments, when he seems to say his prayers to me; but we've had some success in cutting them down. Il s'est bien détaché ces-jours-ci, and I'm very happy for him. Of course it's an impertinent allusion for me to make; but I should be so delighted if I could think of him as a little in love with Miss Dormer," the girl pursued, addressing Nick.
"He is, I think, just a little—just a tiny bit," said Nick, working away; while Mrs. Rooth ejaculated, to her daughter, simultaneously:
"How can you ask such fantastic questions when you know that he's dying for you?"
"Oh, dying!—he's dying very hard!" cried Miriam. "Mr. Sherringham's a man of whom I can't speak with too much esteem and affection, who may be destined to perish by some horrid fever (which God forbid!) in the unpleasant country he's going to. But he won't have caught his fever from your humble servant."
"You may kill him even while you remain in perfect health yourself," said Nick; "and since we're talking of the matter I don't see the harm in my confessing that he strikes me as bad—oh, as very bad indeed."
"And yet he's in love with your sister?—je n'y suis plus."
"He tries to be, for he sees that as regards you there are difficulties. He would like to put his hand on some nice girl who would be an antidote to his poison."
