Whatever the original fault had been--no, no, please! . . . and he
raised an arresting hand--it was, he felt sure, long since fully
atoned. And Mr. Ocock had said a true word: women were strange
creatures. The revelation of his secret might shipwreck his late-found
happiness. It also, of course, might not--and personally Mahony did not
believe it would; for Ocock's buisness throve like the green bay-tree,
and Miss Tilly had been promised a fine two-storeyed house, with
bow-windows and a garden, and a carriage-drive up to the door. Again, the
admission might be accepted in peace just now, and later on used as a
weapon against him. In his, Mahony's, eyes, by far the wisest course
would be, to let the grass grow over the whole affair.
And here he rose, abruptly terminating the interview. "You and I, too,
sir, if you please, will forget what has passed between us this morning,
and never come back on it. How is Tom getting on in the drapery
business? Does he like his billet?"
But none the less as he ushered his visitor out, he felt that there was
a certain finality about the action. It was--as far as his private
feelings were concerned--the old man's moral exit from the scene.
On the doorstep Ocock hoped that nothing that had been said would reach
"your dear little lady." "To 'Enry, too, doc., if you'll be so good,
mum's the word! 'Enry 'ud never forgive me, nay, or you eether, if it
got to 'is 'ears I'd bin an' let the cat outer the bag.
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