‘Between Richard Mutimer, bachelor, and Adela Marian Waitham, spinster,
both of this parish’
It was the only announcement of the kind that Mr. Wyvern had to make
this Sunday. To one of his hearers he seemed to utter the names with
excessive emphasis, his deep voice reverberating in the church. The pews
were high; Adela almost cowered in her corner, feeling pierced with the
eyes, with the thoughts too, of the congregation about her.
She had wondered whether the Manor pew would be occupied to-day, but
it was not. When she stood up, her eyes strayed towards it; the red
curtains which concealed the interior were old and faded, the wooden
canopy crowned it with dreary state. In three weeks that would be
her place at service. Sitting there, it would not be hard to keep her
thoughts on mortality.
Would it not have been graceful in him to attend church to-day? Would
she in future worship under the canopy alone?
No time had been lost. Mr. Wyvern received notice of the proposed
marriage less than two hours after Adela had spoken her world-changing
monosyllable. She put in no plea for delay, and her mother, though
affecting a little consternation at Mutimer’s haste, could not seriously
object. Wanley, discussing the matter at its Sunday tea-tables, declared
with unanimity that such expedition was indecent. By this time the
disapproval of the village had attached itself exclusively to Mrs.
Waltham; Adela was spoken of as a martyr to her mother’s miserable
calculations. Mrs. Mewling went about with a story, that only by
physical restraint had the unhappy girl been kept from taking flight.
The name of Hubert Eldon once more came up in conversation. There was
an unauthenticated rumour that he had been seen of late, lurking about
Wanley. The more boldly speculative gossips looked with delicious
foreboding to the results of a marriage such as this. Given a young man
of Eldon’s reputation--ah me!
The Walthams all lunched (or dined) at the Manor. Mutimer was in high
spirits, or seemed so; there were moments when the cheerful look died
on his face, and his thoughts wandered from the conversation; but if
his eye fell on Adela he never failed to smile the smile of inner
satisfaction. She had not yet responded to his look, and only answered
his questions in the briefest words; but her countenance was resolutely
bright, and her beauty all that man could ask. Richard did not flatter
himself that she held him dear; indeed, he was a good deal in doubt
whether affection, as vulgarly understood, was consistent with breeding
and education. But that did not concern him; he had gained his end, and
was jubilant.
In the course of the meal he mentioned that his sister would come down
from London in a day or two. Christmas was only a week off, and he had
thought it would be pleasant to have her at the Manor for that season.
‘Oh, that’s very nice!’ assented Mrs. Waltham. ‘Alice, her name is,
didn’t you say? Is she dark or fair?’
‘Fair, and just about Adela’s height, I should think. I hope you’ll like
her, Adela.’
It was unfortunate that Richard did not pronounce the name of his bride
elect quite as it sounds on cultured lips. This may have been partly the
result of diffidence; but there was a slurring of the second syllable
disagreeably suggestive of vulgarity. It struck on the girl’s nerves,
and made it more difficult for her to grow accustomed to this form of
address from Mutimer.
‘I’m sure I shall try to,’ she replied to the remark about Alice, this
time endeavouring to fix her obstinate eyes for a moment on Richard’s
face.
‘Your brother won’t come, then?’ Mrs. Waltham asked.
‘Not just yet, I’m afraid. He’s busy studying.’
‘To read and write, I fear,’ was the lady’s silent comment. On the score
of Alice, too, Mrs. Waltham nursed a certain anxiety. The damsels of
the working class are, or so she apprehended, somewhat more difficult of
acceptance than their fathers and brothers, and for several reasons. An
artisan does not necessarily suggest, indeed is very distinct from, the
footman or even groom; but to dissociate an uneducated maiden from the
lower regions of the house is really an exertion of the mind. And then,
it is to be feared, the moral tone of such young persons leaves for
the most part much to be desired. Mrs. Waltham was very womanly in her
distrust of her sex.
After luncheon there was an inspection of the house. Adela did not go
farther than the drawing-room; her brother remained with her whilst
Mutimer led Mrs. Waltham through the chambers she might care to see. The
lady expressed much satisfaction. The furnishing had been performed in
a substantial manner, without display; one might look forward to
considerable comfort at the Manor.
‘Any change that Adela suggests,’ said Richard during this tour, ‘shall
of course be carried out at once. If she doesn’t like the paper in any
of the rooms, she’s only got to say so and choose a better. Do you think
she’d care to look at the stables? I’ll get a carriage for her, and a
horse to ride, if she likes.’
Richard felt strongly that this was speaking in a generous way. He was
not aware that his tone hinted as much, but it unmistakably did.
The vulgarity of a man who tries hard not to be vulgar is always
particularly distressing.
‘Oh, how kind!’ murmured Mrs. Waltham. ‘Adela has never ridden; I should
think carriage exercise would be enough for her. We mustn’t forget your
principles, you know, for I’m sure they are very admirable.’
‘Oh, I don’t care anything about luxuries myself, but Adela shall have
everything she wants.’
Alfred Waltham, who knew the house perfectly, led his mother to inspect
the stables, Mutimer remaining with Adela in the drawing-room.
‘You’ve been very quiet all dinner-time,’ he said, taking a seat near
her and bending forward.
‘A little, perhaps. I am thinking of so many things.’
‘What are they, I wonder?’
‘Will you let me have some books about Socialism, and the other
questions in which you are interested?’
‘I should think I will! You really mean to study these things?’
‘Yes, I will read and think about them. And I shall be glad if you will
explain to me more about the works. I have never quite understood all
that you wish to do. Perhaps you will have time when you come to see us
some evening.’
‘Well, if I haven’t time, I’ll make it,’ said Richard, laughing. ‘You
can’t think how glad I am to hear you say this.’
‘When do you expect your sister?’
‘On Tuesday; at least, I hope it won’t be later. I’m sure you’ll like
her, you can’t help. She hasn’t such looks as you have, you know, but
we’ve always thought her very fair-looking. What do you think we often
call her? The Princess! That’s part because of her name, Alice Maud, and
part from a sort of way she’s always had. Not a flighty way, but a sort
of--well, I can’t describe it. I do hope you’ll like her.’
It was the first time Adela had heard him speak in a tone which
impressed her as entirely honest, not excepting his talk of the
Propaganda. Here, she felt, was a side of his character that she had
not suspected. His voice was almost tender; the play of his features
betokened genuine feeling.
‘I can see she is a great favourite with you,’ she replied. ‘I have no
doubt I shall like her.’
‘You’ll find a good deal that wants altering, I’ve no doubt,’ he
pursued, now quite forgetful of himself. ‘She hasn’t had much education,
you know, till just lately. But you’ll help her in that, won’t you?
She’s as good-natured as any girl living, and whenever you put her right
you may be sure she’ll only thank you. I’ve wanted to have her here
before, only I thought I’d wait till I knew whether--you know what I
mean.
As if in a sudden gloom before her eyes Adela saw his face draw nearer.
It was a moment’s loss of consciousness, in which a ghastly fear flashed
upon her soul. Then, with lips that quivered, she began to talk quickly
of Socialism, just to dispel the horror.
On the following afternoon Mutimer came, bringing a number of books,
pamphlets, and newspapers. Mrs. Waltham had discreetly abandoned the
sitting-room.
‘I don’t want to frighten you,’ he said, laying down his bundle. ‘You
haven’t got to read through all these. I was up nearly all last night
marking pages that I thought you’d better study first of all. And here’s
a lot of back numbers of the “Fiery Cross;” I should like you to read
all that’s signed by Mr. Westlake; he’s the editor, you know.’
‘Is there anything here of your own writing?’ Adela inquired.
‘No, I haven’t written anything. I’ve kept to lecturing; it comes easier
to me. After Christmas I shall have several lectures to give in London.
Perhaps you’ll come and hear me?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then you can get to know Mrs. Westlake, I dare say. She’s a lady, you
know, like yourself. There’s some poetry by her in the paper; it just
has her initials, “S. W.” She’s with us heart and soul, as you’ll see by
her writing.’
‘Is Alice a Socialist?’ Adela asked, after glancing fitfully at the
papers.
Richard laughed.
‘Oh, she’s a princess; it would be too much to expect Socialism of her.
But I dare say she’ll be beginning to think more now. I don’t mean
she’s been thoughtless in the wrong way; it’s just a--I can’t very well
describe it. But I hope you’ll see her to-morrow night May I bring her
to you when she comes?’
‘I hope you will.’
‘I’m glad your brother won’t be here. I only mean, you know, I’d rather
she got accustomed just to you first of all. I dare say she’ll be a bit
timid, you won’t mind that?’
Adela returned to the graver subject.
‘All the people at New Wanley are Socialists?’
‘Yes, all of them. They join the Union when they come to work, and we
take a good deal of care in choosing our men.’
‘And you pay higher wages than other employers?’
‘Not much higher, but the rents of the cottages are very low, and all
the food sold at the store is cost price. No, we don’t pretend to make
the men rich. We’ve had a good lot coming with quite mistaken ideas, and
of course they wouldn’t suit us. And you mustn’t call me the employer.
All I have I look upon as the property of the Union; the men own it as
much as I do. It’s only that I regulate the work, just because somebody
must. We’re not making any profits to speak of yet, but that’ll only
come in time; whatever remains as clear profit,--and I don’t take
anything out of the works myself--goes to the Propaganda fund of the
Union.’
‘Please forgive my ignorance. I’ve heard that word “Propaganda” so
often, but I don’t know exactly what it means.’
Mutimer became patronising, quite without intending it.
‘Propaganda? Oh, that’s the spreading our ideas, you know; printing
paper, giving lectures, hiring places of meeting, and so on. That’s what
Propaganda means.’
‘Thank you,’ said Adela musingly. Then she continued,--
‘And the workmen only have the advantage, at present, of the low rents
and cheap food?’
‘Oh, a good deal more. To begin with, they’re housed like human beings,
and not like animals. Some day you shall see the kind of places the
people live in, in London and other big towns. You won’t believe your
eyes. Then they have shorter hours of work; they’re not treated like
omnibus horses, calculating just how much can be got out of them without
killing them before a reasonable time. Then they’re sure of their work
as long as they keep honest and don’t break any of our rules; that’s no
slight thing, I can tell you. Why, on the ordinary system a man may find
himself and his family without food any week end. Then there’s a good
school for the children; they pay threepence a week for each child.
Then there’s the reading-room and library, and the lectures, and the
recreation-grounds. You just come over the place with me some day, and
talk with the women, and see if they don’t think they’re well off.’
Adela looked him in the face.
‘And it is you they have to thank for all this?’
‘Well, I don’t want any credit for it,’ Mutimer replied, waving his
hand. ‘What would you think of me if I worked them like niggers and just
enjoyed myself on the profits? That’s what the capitalists do.’
‘I think you are doing more than most men would. There is only one
thing.’
She dropped her voice.
‘What’s that, Adela?’
‘I’ll speak of it some other time.’
‘I know what you mean. You’re sorry I’ve got no religion. Ay, but I
have! There’s my religion, down there in New Wanley. I’m saving men and
women and children from hunger and cold and the lives of brute beasts. I
teach them to live honestly and soberly. There’s no public-house in New
Wanley, and there won’t be.’ (It just flashed across Adela’s mind that
Mutimer drank wine himself.) ‘There’s no bad language if I can help it.
The children ‘ll be brought up to respect the human nature that’s in
them, to honour their parents, and act justly and kindly to all they
have dealings with. Isn’t there a good deal of religion in that, Adela?’
‘Yes, but not all. Not the most important part’
‘Well, as you say, we’ll talk over that some other time. And now I’m
sorry I can’t stay any longer. I’ve twenty or thirty letters to get
written before post-time.’
Adela rose as he did.
‘If there’s ever anything I can do to help you,’ she said modestly, ‘you
will not fail to ask me?’
‘That I won’t What I want you to do now is to read what I’ve marked in
those books. You mustn’t tire your eyes, you know; there’s plenty of
time.’
‘I will read all you wish me to, and think over it as much as I can.’
‘Then you’re a right-down good girl, and if I don’t think myself a lucky
man, I ought to.’
He left her trembling with a strange new emotion, the begin fling of
a self-conscious zeal, an enthusiasm forced into being like a hothouse
flower. It made her cheeks burn; she could not rest till her study had
commenced.
Richard had written to his sister, saying that he wanted her, that she
must come at once. To Alice his thoughts had been long turning; now that
the time for action had arrived, it was to her that he trusted for aid.
Things he would find it impossible to do himself, Alice might do for
him. He did not doubt his power of persuading her. With Alice principle
would stand second to his advantage. He had hard things to ask of
her, but the case was a desperate one, and she would endure the
unpleasantness for his sake. He blessed her in anticipation.
Alice received the letter summoning her on Monday morning. Richard
himself was expected in Highbury; expected, too, at a sad little house
in Hoxton; for he had constantly promised to spend Christmas with his
friends. The present letter did not say that he would not come, only
that he wanted his sister immediately. She was to bring her best dress
for wear when she arrived. He told her the train she was to take on
Tuesday morning.
The summons filled Alice with delight. Wanley, whence had come the
marvellous fortune, was in her imagination a land flowing with milk and
honey. Moreover, this would be her first experience of travel; as yet
she had never been farther out of London than to Epping Forest. The
injunction to bring her best dress excited visions of polite company.
All through Monday she practised ways of walking, of eating, of
speaking.
‘What can he want you for?’ asked Mrs. Mutimer gloomily. ‘I sh’d ‘a
thought he might ‘a taken you with him after Christmas. It looks as if
he wasn’t coming.’
The old woman had been habitually gloomy of late. The reply she had
received to her letter was not at all what she wanted; it increased her
impatience; she had read it endless times, trying to get at the very
meaning of it. Christmas must bring an end to this wretched state of
things; at Christmas Dick would come to London and marry Emma; no doubt
he had that time in view. Fears which she would not consciously admit
were hovering about her night and day. She had begun to talk to herself
aloud, a consequence of over-stress on a brain never used to anxious
thought; she went about the upper rooms of the house muttering ‘Dick’s
an honest man.’ To keep moving seemed a necessity to her; the chair in
the dim corner of the dining-room she now scarcely ever occupied, and
the wonted employment of her fingers was in abeyance. She spent most of
her day in the kitchen; already two servants had left because they could
not endure her fidgety supervision. She was growing suspicious of every
one; Alice had to listen ten times a day to complaints of dishonesty in
the domestics or the tradespeople; the old woman kept as keen a watch
over petty expenditure as if poverty had still to be guarded against.
And she was constantly visiting the Vines; she would rise at small hours
to get her house-work done, so as to be able to spend the afternoon in
Wilton Square. That, in truth, was still her home; the new house could
never be to her what the old was; she was a stranger amid the new
furniture, and sighed with relief as soon as her eyes rested on the
familiar chairs and tables which had been her household gods through a
lifetime.
‘Arry had given comparatively little trouble of late; beyond an
occasional return home an hour or so after midnight, his proceedings
seemed to be perfectly regular. He saw a good deal of Mr. Keene, who, as
Alice gathered from various remarks in Richard’s letters, exercised over
him a sort of tutorage. It was singular how completely Richard seemed
to have changed in his judgment of Mr. Keene. ‘His connection with
newspapers makes him very useful,’ said one letter. ‘Be as friendly with
him as you like; I trust to your good sense and understanding of
your own interest to draw the line.’ When at the house Mr. Keene was
profoundly respectful; his position at such times was singular, for as
often as not Alice had to entertain him alone. Profound, too, was the
journalist’s discretion in regard to all doings down at Wanley. Knowing
he had several times visited the Manor, Alice often sought information
from him about her brother’s way of life. Mr. Keene always replied
with generalities. He was a man of humour in his way, and Alice came
to regard him with amusement. Then his extreme respect flattered her;
insensibly she took him for her criterion of gentility in men. He
supplied her with ‘society’ journals, and now and then suggested the
new novel that it behoved her to read. Richard had even withdrawn his
opposition to the theatre-going; about once in three weeks Mr. Keene
presented himself with tickets, and Alice, accompanied by her brother,
accepted his invitation.
He called this Monday evening. Mrs. Mutimer, after spending a day
of fretful misery, had gone to Wilton Square; ‘Arry was away at his
classes. Alice was packing certain articles she had purchased in the
afternoon, and had just delighted her soul with the inspection of a
travelling cloak, also bought to-day. When the visitor was announced,
she threw the garment over her shoulders and appeared in it.
‘Does this look nice, do you think?’ she asked, after shaking hands as
joyously as her mood dictated.
‘About as nice as a perfect thing always does when it’s worn by a
perfect woman,’ Mr. Keene replied, drawing back and inclining his body
at what he deemed a graceful angle.
‘Oh, come, that’s too much!’ laughed Alice.
‘Not a bit, Miss Mutimer. I suppose you travel in it tomorrow morning?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I have heard from your brother to-day. I thought I might perhaps have
the great pleasure of doing you some slight service either to-night or
in the morning. You will allow me to attend you to the station?’
‘I really don’t think there’s any need to trouble you,’ Alice replied.
These respectful phrases always stirred her pleasurably: in listening
to them she bore herself with dignity, and endeavoured to make answer in
becoming diction.
‘Trouble? What other object have I in life but to serve you? I’ll put it
in another way: you won’t refuse me the pleasure of being near you for a
few minutes?’
‘I’m sure you’re very kind. I know very well it’s taking you out of your
way, but it isn’t likely I shall refuse to let you come.’
Mr. Keene bowed low in silence.
‘Have you brought me that paper?’ Alice asked, seating herself with
careful arrangement of her dress. ‘The Christmas number with the ghost
story you spoke of, you know?’
In the course of a varied life Mr. Keene had for some few months trodden
the boards of provincial theatres; an occasional turn of his speech, and
still more his favourite gestures, bore evidence to that period of his
career. Instead of making direct reply to Alice’s question, he stood for
a moment as if dazed; then flinging back his body, smote his forehead
with a ringing slap, and groaned ‘O Heaven!’
‘What’s the matter?’ cried the girl, not quite knowing whether to be
amused or alarmed.
But Mr. Keene was rushing from the room, and in an instant the house
door sounded loudly behind him. Alice stood disconcerted; then, thinking
she understood, laughed gaily and ran upstairs to complete her
packing. In a quarter of an hour Mr. Keene’s return brought her to the
drawing-room again. The journalist was propping himself against the
mantelpiece, gasping, his arms hanging limp, his hair disordered. As
Alice approached he staggered forward, fell on one knee, and held to her
the paper she had mentioned.
‘Pardon--forgive!’ he panted.
‘Why, where ever have you been?’ exclaimed Alice.
‘No matter! what are time and space? Forgive me, Miss Mutimer! I deserve
to be turned out of the house, and never stand in the light of your
countenance again.’
‘But how foolish! As if it mattered all that. What a state you’re in!
I’ll go and get you a glass of wine.’
She ran to the dining-room, and returned with a decanter and glass on a
tray. Mr. Keene had sunk upon a settee, one arm hanging over the back,
his eyes closed.
‘You have pardoned me?’ he murmured, regarding her with weary rapture.
‘I don’t see what there is to pardon. Do drink a glass of wine! Shall I
pour it out for you?’
‘Drink and service for the gods!’
‘Do you mean the people in the gallery?’ Alice asked roguishly,
recalling a term in which Mr. Keene had instructed her at their latest
visit to the theatre.
‘You are as witty as you are beautiful!’ he sighed, taking the glass and
draining it. Alice turned away to the fire; decidedly Mr. Keene was in
a gallant mood this evening; hitherto his compliments had been far more
guarded.
They began to converse in a more terrestrial manner. Alice wanted to
know whom she was likely to meet at Wanley; and Mr. Keene, in a light
way, sketched for her the Waltham family. She became thoughtful whilst
he was describing Adela Waltham, and subsequently recurred several times
to that young lady. The journalist allowed himself to enter into detail,
and Alice almost ceased talking.
It drew on to half-past nine. Mr. Keene never exceeded discretion in the
hours of his visits. He looked at his watch and rose.
‘I may call at nine?’ he said.
‘If you really have time. But I can manage quite well by myself, you
know.’
‘What you _can_ do is not the question. If I had my will you should
never know a moment’s trouble as long as you lived.’
‘If I never have worse trouble than going to the railway station, I
shall think myself lucky.’
‘Miss Mutimer--’
‘Yes?’
‘You won’t drop me altogether from your mind whilst you’re away?’
There was a change in his voice. He had abandoned the tone of excessive
politeness, and spoke very much like a man who has feeling at the back
of his words. Alice regarded him nervously.
‘I’m not going to be away more than a day or two,’ she said, smoothing a
fold in her dress.
‘If it was only an hour or two I couldn’t bear to think you’d altogether
forgotten me.’
‘Why, of course I shan’t!’
‘But--Miss Mutimer, I’m abusing confidence. Your brother trusts me; he’s
done me a good many kindnesses. But I can’t help it, upon my soul. If
you betray me, I’m done for. You won’t do that? I put myself in your
power, and you’re too good to hurt a fly.’
‘What do you mean, Mr. Keene?’ Alice asked, inwardly pleased, yet
feeling uncomfortable.
‘I can’t go away to-night without saying it, and ten to one it means I
shall never see you again. You know what I mean. Well, harm me as you
like; I’d rather be harmed by you than done good to by any one else.
I’ve got so far, there’s no going back. Do you think some day you
could--do you think you _could_?’
Alice dropped her eyes and shook her pretty head slowly.
‘I can’t give any promise of that kind,’ she replied under her breath.
‘You hate me? I’m a disagreeable beast to you? I’m a low--’
‘Oh dear, don’t say such things, Mr. Keene! The idea! I don’t dislike
you a bit; but of course that’s a different thing--’
He held out his hand sadly, dashing the other over his eyes.
‘Good-bye, I don’t think I can come again. I’ve abused confidence.
When your brother hears of it--. But no matter, I’m only a--a sort of
crossing-sweeper in your eyes.’
Alice’s laugh rang merrily.
‘What things you do call yourself! Now, don’t go off like that, Mr.
Keene. To begin with, my brother won’t hear anything about it--’
‘You mean that? You are so noble, so forgiving? Pooh, as if I didn’t
know you were! Upon my soul, I’d run from here to South Kensington, like
the ragamuffins after the cabs with luggage, only just to get a smile
from you. Oh, Miss Mutimer--oh!’
‘Mr. Keene, I can’t say yes, and I don’t like to be so unkind to you as
to say no. You’ll let that do for the present, won’t you?’
‘Bless your bright eyes, of course I will! If I don’t love you for
your own sake, I’m the wretchedest turnip-snatcher in London. Good-bye,
Princess!’
‘Who taught you to call me that?’
‘Taught me? It was only a word that came naturally to my lips.’
Curiously, this was quite true. It impressed Alice Maud, and she thought
of Mr. Keene for at least five minutes continuously after his departure.
She was extravagantly gay as they drove in a four-wheeled cab to the
station next morning. Mr. Keene made no advances. He sat respectfully
on the seat opposite her, with a travelling bag on his knees, and sighed
occasionally. When she had secured her seat in the railway carriage he
brought her sandwiches, buns, and sweetmeats enough for a voyage to New
York. Alice waved her hand to him as the train moved away.
She reached Agworth at one o’clock; Richard had been pacing the platform
impatiently for twenty minutes. Porters were eager to do his bidding,
and his instructions to them were suavely imperative.
‘They know me,’ he remarked to Alice, with his air of satisfaction. ‘I
suppose you’re half frozen? I’ve got a foot-warmer in the trap.’
The carriage promised to Adela was a luxury Richard had not ventured to
allow himself. Alice mounted to a seat by his side, and he drove off.
‘Why on earth did you come second-class?’ he asked, after examining her
attire with approval.
‘Ought it to have been first? It really seemed such a lot of money,
Dick, when I came to look at the fares.’
‘Yes, it ought to have been first. In London things don’t matter, but
here I’m known, you see. Did mother go to the station with you?’
‘No, Mr. Keene did.’
‘Keene, eh?’ He bent his brows a moment.
‘I hope he behaves himself?’
‘I’m sure he’s very gentlemanly.’
‘Yes, you ought to have come first-class. A princess riding second’ll
never do. You look well, old girl? Glad to come, eh?’
‘Well, guess! And is this your own horse and trap, Dick?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Who was that man? He touched his hat to you.’
Mutimer glanced back carelessly.
‘I’m sure I don’t know. Most people touch their hats to me about here.’
It was an ideal winter day. A feathering of snow had fallen at dawn, and
now the clear, cold sun made it sparkle far and wide. The horse’s tread
rang on the frozen highway. A breeze from the north-west chased the
blood to healthsome leaping, and caught the breath like an unexpected
kiss. The colour was high on Alice’s fair cheeks; she laughed with
delight.
‘Oh, Dick, what a thing it is to be rich! And you do look such a
gentleman; it’s those gloves, I think.’
‘Now we’re going into the village,’ Mutimer said presently. ‘Don’t look
about you too much, and don’t seem to be asking questions. Everybody ‘ll
be at the windows.’