"But isn't it odd he didn't say so?" said Miss Prettyman.
"Nevertheless, it's true," said Mary.
"Perhaps he forgot," said Anne Prettyman.
"Men don't forget such things as that," said the elder sister.
"I really do think Mr. Crawley could forget anything," said the younger sister.
"You may be sure it's true," said Mary Walker, "because papa said so."
"If he said so, it must be true," said Miss Prettyman; "and I am rejoiced. I really am rejoiced. Poor man! Poor ill-used man! And nobody has ever believed that he has really been guilty, even though they may have thought that he spent the money without any proper right to it. And now he will get off. But dear me, Mary, Mr. Smithe told me yesterday that he had already given up his living, and that Mr. Spooner, the minor canon, was trying to get it from the dean. But that was because Mr. Spooner and Mrs. Proudie had quarrelled; and as Mrs. Proudie is gone, Mr. Spooner very likely won't want to move now."
"They'll never go and put anybody into Hogglestock, Annabella, over Mr. Crawley's head," said Anne.
"I didn't say that they would. Surely I may be allowed to repeat what I hear, like another person, without being snapped up."
"I didn't mean to snap you up, Annabella."
"You're always snapping me up. But if this is true, I cannot say how glad I am. My poor Grace! Now, I suppose, there will be no difficulty, and Grace will become a great lady." Then they discussed very minutely the chances of Grace Crawley's promotion.
John Walker, Mr. Winthrop, and several others, of the chosen spirits of Silverbridge, were playing whist at a provincial club, which had established itself in the town, when the news was brought to them. Though Mr. Winthrop was the partner of the great Walker, and though John Walker was the great man's son, I fear that the news reached their ears in but an underhand sort of way. As for the great man himself, he never went near the club, preferring his slippers and tea at home. The Walkerian groom, rushing up the street to the "George and Vulture," paused a moment to tell his tidings to the club porter; from the club porter it was whispered respectfully to the Silverbridge apothecary, who, by special grace, was a member of the club;—and was by him repeated with much cautious solemnity over the card-table. "Who told you that, Balsam?" said John Walker, throwing down his cards.
