COMPANY FOR MR. OSWALD CRAY.
For some days subsequent to the interview with Neal, and that valuable
servant's startling communication, Mr. Oswald Cray remained in what
may be called a sea of confusion. The unhappy circumstances attendant
on Lady Oswald's death never left his mind, the strange suspicions
first arising naturally, as they did arise, and then augmented by
Neal's disclosure, seemed to be ever waging hot war within him, for
they were entirely antagonistic to sober reason, to his life-long
experience of Dr. Davenal.
It cannot be denied that Oswald Cray, calm of temperament though he
was, sound of judgment, did fall into the snare that the web of events
had woven around him; and, in the midnight watches, when things wear
to our senses a weird, ghost-like hue, the disagreeable word murder
suggested itself to him oftener than he would have cared to confess in
broad matter-of-fact daylight. But as the days went on his senses came
to him. Reason reasserted her empire, and he flung the dark doubt
from him, as unworthy of himself and the present enlightened age. It
was impossible to connect such a crime with Dr. Davenal.
But still, though he shook off the worst view, he could not shake off
the circumstances and their suspicion. Perhaps it was next to
impossible, knowing what he did know of the doctor's sentiments as to
chloroform, hearing, as he had heard, Neal's account of the words
spoken at the midnight interview, that he should shake them off. They
turned and twisted themselves about in his mind in spite of his will;
he would have given much to get rid of them, but he could not. Now
taking one phase, now another, now looking dark, now light, there they
were, like so many phantoms, ever springing up from different corners
of his mind, and putting legitimate thoughts out of it. Up and in bed,
at work or at rest, were those conflicting arguments ever dancing
attendance on him, until, from sheer perplexity, his brain would seem
to lose its subtle powers, and grow dull from very weariness. But the
worst aspect of the affair gradually lost its impression, and reason
drove away the high colours of imagination.
The conclusion to which he at length came, and in which he finally
settled down, was that Dr. Davenal had been in a partial degree
guilty. He _could not_ think that he had given that chloroform to Lady
Oswald with the deliberate view of taking her life, as some of our
worst criminals have taken lives: but he did believe there was some
hidden culpability attached to it. Could it have been given in
forgetfulness?--or by way of experiment?--or carelessly? Oswald Cray
asked himself those questions ten times in a day. No, no, reason
answered; Dr. Davenal was not a man to forget, or to experimentalise,
or to do things carelessly. And then, with the answer, rose the one
dark, awful doubt again, tormenting him not less with its shadows than
with its preposterous absurdity.
What clung to his mind more than all the rest was, that he could see
no solution, or chance of solution, to the question of why chloroform
was administered, why even it was taken to the house. Had Dr. Davenal
frankly answered him when questioned, "I thought, in spite of my
conversation with you, that chloroform might be ventured upon with
safety, that it would ease her sufferings, and was absolutely
necessary to calm her state of excitement," why he could have had no
more to say, however lamenting the fatal effects. But Dr. Davenal had
answered nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he had been mysterious
over it, and at length flatly refused to satisfy him at all. So far as
Oswald Cray could see, there was no other solution, then or ever, that
could be arrived at, save that the chloroform had been administered
wilfully and deliberately. If so, then with what view had Dr.
Davenal----
At this point Oswald Cray always pulled his thoughts up, or strove to
do so, and plunged desperately into another phase of the affair as if
he would run away from dangerous ground. Once he caught himself
wondering whether, if the doctor had been deliberately guilty, it lay
in his duty--his, Oswald Cray's--to bring him to account for it. No
living being save himself, so far as he trusted, had been cognisant of
Dr. Davenal's strong opinion of chloroform as applied to Lady Oswald.
Ought he, then, not only in the obligation which lies upon all honest
men to bring crime to light, but as a connection of Lady Oswald's,
ought he to be the Nemesis, and denounce----
With a quicker beating of the heart, with a burning flush upon his
brow, Oswald Cray started from the train of thought. Into what strange
gulf was it carrying him? Ah, not though it had been his fate to see
the crime committed, and to know that it was a crime, would _he_ be
the one to bring it home to Richard Davenal! The man whom he had so
respected; the father of her who possessed his best love, and who
would possess it, in spite of his efforts to withdraw it, for all
time? No; not against _him_ could his hand be raised in judgment.
_In spite of his efforts to withdraw his love?_ Had it come to that
with Oswald Cray? Indeed it had. He could not fathom the affair, it
remained to him utterly incomprehensible, but that Dr. Davenal was in
some way or other compromised by it, terribly compromised, seemed as
plain as the sun at noonday. And Mr. Oswald Cray, in his haughty
spirit, his besetting pride, decided that he could no longer be on
terms of friendship with him, and that Sara Davenal must be no wife of
his.
What it cost him to come to this resolution of casting her adrift,
none save Heaven knew. The struggle remained on his memory for years
afterwards as the sorest pain life had ever brought him. It was the
bitter turning-point which too many of us have to arrive at, and pass;
the dividing link which dashes away the sunny meads, the flowery paths
of life's young romance, and sends us stumbling and shivering down the
stony road of reality. None knew, none ever would know, what that
struggle was to Oswald Cray.
Not a struggle as to the course he should pursue--the breaking off
intimacy with her: never for a single moment did he hesitate in that.
The struggle lay with his feelings, with his own heart, where she was
entwined with its every fibre, part and parcel of its very self. He
strove to put her out thence, and she would not be put out. There she
remained, and he was conscious that there she would remain for many a
dreary year to come.
But for his overweening pride, how different things might have been!
He was too just a man to include Sara in the doctor's--dare he say
it?--crime. Although Neal had said that Miss Sara Davenal had been
made cognisant of it, Oswald did not visit upon her one iota of blame.
She was no more responsible for the doctor's acts than he was, neither
could she help them. No, he did not cast a shadow of reproach upon
her; she had done nothing to forfeit his love; but she was her
father's daughter, and therefore no fit wife for him. One whose pride
was less in the ascendant than Mr. Oswald Cray's, whose self-esteem
was less sensitively fastidious, might have acted upon this
consciousness of her immunity from blame, and set himself to see
whether there was not a way out of the dilemma rather than have given
her up, off-hand, at the very first onset. He might have gone in his
candour to Dr. Davenal and said, "I love your daughter; I had wished
to make her my wife; tell me confidentially, is there a reason why I,
an honourable man, should not?" Not so Mr. Oswald Cray and his haughty
pride. Without a single moment of hesitation he shook himself free
from all future contact with the daughter of Dr. Davenal, just as he
was trying to shake her from his heart. Never more, never more, might
he look forward to the life of happiness he had been wont to picture.
It was a cruel struggle, cruel to him; and the red flush of shame
mantled on his brow as he thought of the binding words he had spoken
to her, and the dishonour that must accrue to him in breaking them.
There was not a man on the face of the earth whose sense of honour was
more keen than Oswald Cray's, who was less capable of wilfully doing
aught to tarnish it; and yet that tarnishing was thrust upon him.
Anyway, it seemed that a great stain must fall upon it. To take one to
be his wife whose father was a suspected man would be a blot indeed;
and to slip through the words he had spoken, never more to take notice
of her or them, was scarcely less so. He felt it keenly; he, the man
of unblemished conduct, and, it may be said, of unblemished heart.
But still he did not for a moment hesitate. Great as the pain was to
himself, little as she, in her innocence, deserved that the slight
should be inflicted on her, he never wavered in that which he knew
must be. The only question that arose to him was, how it should be
best done. Should he speak to her?--or should he gradually drop all
intimacy and let the fact become known to her in that way? Which would
be the kinder course? That the separation would be productive of the
utmost pain to her as to him, that she loved him with all the fervour
of a first and pure attachment, he knew; and he felt for her to his
very heart's core. He hated himself for having to inflict this pain,
and he heartily wished, as things had turned out, that he had never
yielded to the pleasure of becoming intimate at Dr. Davenal's. Well,
which should be his course? Oswald Cray sat over his fire one cold
evening after business was over, and deliberated upon it. Some weeks
had gone on then. He leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair, and
bent his cheek on his hand, and gazed abstractedly on the blaze. He
shrank from the very idea of speaking to her. No formal engagement
existed between them: it had been implied more than spoken; and he
would be scarcely justified in say to her, "I cannot marry you now,"
considering that he had never in so many words asked her to marry him
at all. She might regard it as a gratuitous insult.
But, putting that aside, he did not see his way clear to speak to her.
What reason could he give for his withdrawal He could not set it down
to his own caprice; and he could not--no, he _could not_--put forth to
her the plea of her father's misdoing. He began to think it might be
better to maintain silence, and so let the past and its words die
away. If----
He was aroused from his train of thought by the entrance of a woman--a
woman in a black bonnet, and sleeves turned up to the elbow, with a
rather crusty expression of face. This was Mrs. Benn the housekeeper,
cleaner, cook of the house. It did not lie in Mrs. Benn's province to
wait on Mr. Oswald Cray, or she would probably have attired herself
more in accordance with her duty. It lay in her husband's, and he had
been sent out this evening by Mr. Oswald Cray on business connected
with the firm. On cleaning days--and they occurred twice in the
week--Mrs. Benn was wont to descend in, the morning in the black
bonnet, and keep it on until she went to bed. It was not worn as
bonnets are worn usually; the crown behind and the brim before; but
was perched right on the top of her head, brim downwards and Mrs. Benn
was under a firm persuasion that this kept her hair and her cap free
from the dust she was wont to raise in sweeping. She was about forty,
but looked, fifty, and her face had got a patch of black-lead upon it,
and a nail had torn a rent in her check apron.
"Wouldn't you like the things taken away, sir?" she asked in a tone as
crusty as her look. "I'm waiting to wash 'em up."
This recalled Oswald Cray's notice to the fact that the remains of his
dinner were yet upon the table. He believed he had rung for them to be
taken away when he turned to the fire; and there he had sat with his
back to them since, never noticing that nobody had come to do it. It
was now a little past seven, and Mrs. Benn had grown angry and
indignant at the waiting.
"I declare I thought they had gone away," he said. "I suppose the bell
did not ring. I am sure I touched it."
"No bell have rung at all," returned Mrs. Benn resentfully. "I stood
down there with my hands afore me till the clock had gone seven, and
then I thought I'd come up and see what was keeping 'em. You haven't
ate much this evening, sir," she added, looking at the dish of steak
and the potatoes. "I don't think you have eat much lately. Don't you
feel well?"
"Well! I am very well," he replied carelessly, rising from his chair
and stretching himself. "Is Benn not back yet?"
"No, he is not back," she returned, her tone becoming rather an
explosive one, boding no good for the absent Mr. Benn. "He don't seem
to hurry himself, _he_ don't, though he knows if he didn't get back I
should have to come up here: and very fit I be on my cleaning days to
appear before a gentleman."
"Is it necessary to clean in a bonnet?" asked Oswald quietly.
"It's necessary to clean in something, sir, to protect one's head from
the fluff and stuff that collects. One would wonder where it comes
from, all in a week. I used to tie a apron over my cap, but it was
always coming off, or else blowing its corners into the way of one's
eyes."
Oswald laughed. He remembered the apron era, and the guy Mrs. Benn
looked. For twelve years had she and her husband been the servants of
that house. Formerly Mr. Bracknell, an old bachelor, had lived in it,
and Benn and his wife waited on him, as they now did on Mr. Oswald
Cray.
"Would you like tea this evening, sir?" she inquired. For sometimes
Oswald took tea and sometimes he did not.
"Yes; if you bring it up directly. I am going out."
She went away with her tray of things. Down the first flight of
stairs, past the offices, and down again to the kitchen. The ground
floor of this house in Parliament Street was occupied by the offices
of the firm, and partially so the floors above. Oswald Cray had two or
three rooms for his own use; his sitting-room, not a very large one,
being on the first floor.
His train of thought had been broken by the woman, and he did not
recall it. He stepped into an adjoining apartment, lighted a shaded
lamp, sat down, and began examining a drawing of some complicated
plans. Pencil in hand, he was deep in the various mysteries pertaining
to engineering, when he heard Mrs. Benn and the tea-tray. He finished
marking off certain lines and strokes on a blank sheet of paper--which
he did after a queer fashion, his eyes fixed on the drawing, and his
fingers only appearing to guide the pencil--before he went in.
He had not hurried himself, and the tea must be getting cold. Mrs.
Benn was in the habit of making it downstairs, so that he had no
trouble. It was by no means a handsome tea equipage--party belonging,
in fact, to Mrs. Benn herself. The black teapot had a chipped spout,
and the black milk-jug had a fray on its handle, and the china tea-cup
was cracked across. Oswald's china tea-service had been handsome
once--or rather Mr. Bracknell's, for it was to that gentleman the
things in the house belonged; but Mrs. Benn had what she herself
called a "heavy hand at breakage," and two or three cups and saucers
were all that remained. Oswald determined to buy himself a decent
tea-set, but somehow he never thought of it, and the elegant equipage
came up still.
He poured himself out a cup, stirred it, and then went for the sheet
of paper on which he had been making the strokes and scrawls. Mrs.
Benn knew her master well. He had said he was going out, but he was
just as likely to remain over these strokes all the evening as to go
out; perhaps, even, in forgetfulness keep her tea-things up until ten
o'clock, or until she went for them. Oswald Cray was one whose heart
was in his profession, and work was more pleasant to him than
idleness.
He was busy still over this paper, neglecting his tea, when Mrs. Benn
came in again. He thought she had come very soon for her tea-tray
tonight. But she had not come for that.
"Here's company now, sir! A young lady wants to see you."
"A young lady!" repeated Oswald. "To see me?"
"Well, I suppose she's a young lady--from what one can see of her
through her black veil; but she come to my kitchen bell only, when the
knocker was a-staring her right in the face," returned Mrs. Benn. "She
asked for you, sir. I said, was it any message I could take up, but
she says she wants to speak to you herself."
"You can show her up."
Mrs. Benn accomplished this process in a summary manner. Going down
the stairs to the hall, where she had left the applicant, she briefly
said to her, "You can go up. First door you come to that's open"--and
then left the lady to find her way. Had her husband, Benn, been at
home, he would have asked her what she meant by introducing a visitor
in that fashion to Mr. Oswald Cray; and he would probably have got for
answer a sharp order to mind his own business. In point of fact, Mrs.
Benn, on those two dark interludes of her weekly existence, cleaning
days, had neither time nor temper to waste on superfluous ceremony.
Oswald Cray had bent over his paper again, attaching little importance
to the advent of the visitor; he supposed it might be some messenger
from one or other of the clerks. The footfall on the stairs was soft
and light; Oswald's back was to the door, and his lines and marks were
absorbing his attention.
"Mr. Oswald Cray?"
It was a sweet and pleasant and sensible voice, with a Scotch accent
very perceptible to English ears. It was the voice of a lady, and
Oswald Cray started up hastily, pencil in hand.
A short, slight, very young-looking woman, with a fair face and blue
eyes, stood before him. Strictly speaking, there was no beauty
whatever in the face, but it was so fair, so frank, so honest, with
its steady good sense and its calm blue eyes, that Oswald Cray warmed
to it at once. She was dressed plainly in black, and she threw back
her crape veil to speak--as most sensible women like to do. To
Oswald's eyes, seeing her by that light, she looked about one or two
and twenty, as she had to Mrs. Benn: her light complexion, her small
features, and her slight figure were all of that type that remain
young a long while. In his surprise he did not for the moment speak,
and she repeated the words, not as a question this time--
"You are Mr. Oswald Cray."
"That is my name," he answered, recovering his equanimity. "May I----"
"I come to you from my brother, Frank Allister," she interrupted. "I
am Jane Allister."
She pronounced the name "Jean" as she had in fact been christened, but
it generally gets corrupted into Jane by English ears and English
tongues. Oswald so interpreted it. His whole face lighted up with a
smile of welcome; it may be said of recognition. He had heard so much
of this good sister from his friend Frank Allister.
"I am so glad you have come to him!" he warmly exclaimed, taking her
hand. "Frank has almost pined for you: but he did not expect you yet.
I seem to know you quite well: he has talked to me of you so much."
"Thank you; I'll take it," she said, in answer to the chair he
offered. "And I will take off my fur," she added, unwinding a boa from
her neck, and untying her bonnet-strings. "Your room feels very warm
to one coming in from the keen air outside."
There was something in her frank manners that struck most pleasingly
on the mind of Oswald. She sat there as confidingly in his room as
though he had been her brother: a good, modest, single-minded woman,
whom even a bad man could not do otherwise than respect.
"Yes, I came before Frank expected me;" she said. "I did not think I
could have come so soon; but my friends kindly released me. You know
my situation--why I could not come to him before."
"I know that you are"--Oswald hesitated for a moment, and then went
bravely on. Before that clear eye of plain good sense there was no
need to mince the matter, and pretend ignorance.
"I know that you are companion-attendant to a lady. And that you could
not leave her."
"I have been companion and maid to her all in one," said Miss
Allister. "When I and Frank had to go out into the world and do the
best we could for ourselves, I was obliged to look out for what I was
most fitted for. Our dead mother's brother offered to help Frank, and
he paid the premium with him to this house, and assisted him
otherwise, and I was very glad it should be so----"
"You mean Mr. Brown?" interrupted Oswald.
"Yes. He lived in London. My mother was English born and reared. He
was a good friend to us so long as he lived. It was necessary that I
should go out; and a situation offered in a lady's family, Mrs.
Graham. She wanted some one who would be her companion, sit with her,
read to her, some one well reared, of whom she might make an equal,
but who would at the same time act as maid; and I took it. But perhaps
you have heard all this from Frank?"
"No, not these past details. Though he has talked of you very much. He
has told me"--Oswald broke into a frank smile as he said it--"that his
sister Jane was worth her weight in gold."
"I should be sorry to think that most sisters are not worth as much as
I am," she gravely answered. "I have but done my duty, so far as I
could do it, and the worst of us ought to do no less. When Frank found
I acted as maid to Mrs. Graham he was very much put out, and wanted me
to give up the situation and seek a different one. But I laughed at
him for a proud boy, and I have stayed on until now. What am I the
worse for it? I dressed her, and served her, and when of late years
she got ill and helpless, I nursed and fed her. I had become so useful
to her--I must say, so indispensable--that when news reached me of
Frank's illness, I could not quit her to come to him. I tried to see
which way my duty lay; to leave her for my sick brother, or to leave
my brother to strangers, and stay with my dying and helpless friend
and mistress, Every week we expected would be her last; she has been
slowly dying for these three months; and I felt that it would be wrong
to abandon her. That, you see, is why I could not come to Frank."
"Is she dead?" asked Oswald.
"O yes. This mourning that I am wearing is for her. And as soon as it
was possible after the funeral I came away. We had a long and bad
passage, two days, and I did not reach Frank until three o'clock this
afternoon."
"You should have come by land," observed Oswald.
"Nay, but that would have cost more," she simply answered. "And I
know that Frank was better, so as to be in no vital hurry for my
presence. I have come to you, sir, this evening, to ask your opinion
of his state. Will you be so kind as to give it me?"
"First of all will you permit me to invite you to take a cup of tea?"
replied Oswald, turning round to look at the tray, which was on the
opposite side of the table, next the door.
"No, I thank you," she replied, "I gave Frank his tea before I came
out, and took some with him. But will you let me pour out a cup for
you? I saw that I interrupted you."
Before Oswald could decline, she had taken her gloves off, and was
round at the tray, putting it in order. That a bachelor had been doing
the honours of the ceremony was only too apparent. The teapot was
stuck on the side of the tray, spout forwards; the milk-jug was not on
the tray at all, but ever so far away on the table. Jane Allister had
put all this to rights in a twinkling, and was pouring the slop of
cold tea out of his tea-cup into the basin.
"Not for me," said Oswald, feeling as if he had known her for years.
"You are very kind, but I have taken all I wish."
"Nay, not kind at all," she said, looking at him with some surprise.
"I'd have been glad to do it for you."
Oswald had risen, and she came back from the tea-tray, and stood by
him on the hearth-rug. Her bonnet still untied, her gloves off, her
face and attitude full of repose, she looked like one in her own home.
"You'll tell me freely what you think of Frank?"
There was not the slightest shade of doubt in her voice; she evidently
expected that he would tell it her; tell it her freely, as she asked
for it. She stood with her fair face raised, her candid blue eyes
thrown full up to his.
Oswald drew her chair forward for her, and took his own, pausing
before he spoke. In good truth, he scarcely now knew what was his
opinion of Frank Allister. It was one of those cases where the patient
seems at death's door, and then, to the surprise of all, the disease
takes a sudden turn, and appears to be almost gone. In the previous
month, October, Oswald Cray had believed that a few days must see the
end of Frank Allister; this, the close of November, he was apparently
getting well all one way.
"I do not quite know how to answer you," Oswald began. "Five or six
weeks ago Frank was so ill that I did not think there remained the
least chance for him, but he has changed in a wonderful manner. But
for the deceitfulness that is so characteristic of the disease, I
should believe him to be getting well. Remembering that, I can only
look upon it as a false improvement."
Jane Allister paused. "I suppose there is no doubt that his symptoms
are those of consumption?"
"None."
"And consumption, if it does come on, is rarely if ever cured. Do you
think it is?"
"Very rarely, I fear."
"But again, I have known patients who have displayed every symptom of
consumption, have suffered much, and who have eventually got strong
and hearty, and continued so."
"That is true," he assented. "There have been such instances. I wish I
could satisfy you better, but indeed I do not know what to think. Mr.
Bracknell asked me a day or two ago how Allister was getting on, and I
answered as I answer you--that I really could not tell him."
"When I reached my brother's today and saw how well he appeared to be,
so different from what I had expected to find him, I could not help
expressing my surprise," said Miss Allister. "Frank gaily told me that
his illness and its supposed danger had been all a mistake, and he had
taken a new lease of life. I did not know what to think, what to
believe; and I determined to come here and ask your opinion. I could
not, you know, ask you before him."
"And I cannot give you a decisive one," repeated Oswald. "I can only
hope that this improvement may go on to a complete restoration: and I
should think it, but for the treacherous nature of the disease. Frank
does certainly appear wonderfully strong and well. Even the doctor
cannot say that it will not end in recovery."
"Frank wrote me word that you had caused him to see one of the great
London physicians, and that the opinion was unfavourable. But that was
when he was at the worst. You have been truly kind to him, Mr. Oswald
Cray, and when I came here tonight I felt that I was coming to a
friend."
"I should like to be your friend always," returned Oswald, in an
unusual impulse. "I seem to have been so a long while, Frank has
talked to me so much of you."
"Do you come to see him daily?"
"Not daily; but as often as I can. It is some distance from here."
"It is a long way. But I got misdirected.
"You surely did not walk?" exclaimed Oswald.
"To be sure I walked. How else should I come?"
"There are conveyances--cabs and omnibuses."
"But they cost money," she answered, with that frank, open plainness,
which, in her, seemed so great a charm. "I am not come away to England
devoid of means, but they will find plenty of outlets in necessary
things, without being spent in superfluities. Anyway, they must be
made to last both for me and Frank, until I can leave him and go out
again. I'd not speak of these things to you, Mr. Oswald Cray, but that
you must know all the particulars of our position."
She had risen as she spoke, and was now tying her bonnet-strings.
Oswald picked up a glove which she dropped.
"And now I'll wish you goodnight," she continued, putting her hand
frankly into his. "And I'd like to thank you with all my heart for
what you have done for Frank; for the good friend you have been to
him. You have brought to him help and comfort when there was nobody
else in the world to bring it. I shall always thank you in my heart,
Mr. Oswald Cray."
Oswald laughed the words off, and attended her downstairs, catching up
his hat as he went through the hall. Mrs. Benn and her black bonnet
came up the kitchen stairs.
"Goodnight," repeated Jane Allister.
"I am going with you," said Oswald.
She resisted the suggestion at first, saying she could find her way
back quite well; but Oswald quietly carried his point.
He closed the door behind him, and offered his arm. She took it at
once, thanking him in a staid old-fashioned manner. Mrs. Benn drew the
door open and looked after them.
"Arm-in-arm!" ejaculated that lady. "And he bending of his head down
to her to talk! Who on earth can she be?--coming after him to his
house--and stopping up there in the parlour--and keeping up of the
tea-things! It looks uncommon like as if he had took on a sweetheart.
Only----So it's you at last, is it, Joe Benn! And what do you mean by
stopping out like this?"
The concluding sentences were addressed to a respectable-looking man
who approached the door. It was Joseph Benn, her husband, and the
faithful servant of the firm.
"I couldn't make more haste," he quietly answered.
"Not make more haste! Don't tell me. Mr. Oswald Cray expected you were
home an hour ago."
"Mr. Oswald Cray will be quite satisfied that I have not wasted my
time when I tell him where I've been. Is he upstairs?"
"No, he is not," she sharply answered. "Satisfied, indeed! Yes, he
looked satisfied when he saw me going up to wait upon him in this
guise, and to show in his company? And me waiting a good mortal hour
for his dinner-things, which he forgot was up which couldn't have
happened if you'd been at your post to wait at table. You go and stop
out again at his dinner-time, Joe Benn."
Joe Benn made no rejoinder; experience had taught him that it was best
not. He passed her, and she shut the door with a bang.