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.”