" "It shall be, Sir," replied Ireton, bowing. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. The villagers were thronging to church. ’ ‘And do not say you made a mull. I see. ’ Trodger frowned, and chewed his lip. Think—think of that engagement!” Their talk had come to eloquent silences that contradicted all he had to say. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. She heard the shower running and looked at his floor. A nurse was at the other end of the room. " (An order which was promptly obeyed.
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