Four weeks later, Mavis got out of the train at Melkbridge. She
breathed a sigh of relief when her feet touched the platform; her one
regret was that she was not leaving London further away than the
hundred miles which separated Melkbridge from the metropolis. It seemed
to her as if the great city were exclusively peopled with Mr. Orgles',
Mrs Hamiltons, Miss Ewers, and their like. Ignorant of London's
kindness, she had only thought for its wickedness. With the exception
of one incident, she had resolved to forget as much as possible of her
existence since she had left Brandenburg College; also, to see what
happiness she could wrest from life in the capacity of clerk in the
Melkbridge boot manufactory, a position she owed to her long delayed
appeal to Mr Devitt for employment. The one incident that she cared to
dwell upon was her meeting with Windebank and the kindly concern he had
exhibited in her welfare. The morning following upon her encounter with
him, she had long debated, without arriving at any conclusion, whether
she had done well, or otherwise, in leaving him as she had done. As the
days passed, if things seemed inclined to go happily with her, she was
glad that she had put an end to their budding friendship, to regret her
behaviour when vexed by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Her few hours' acquaintance with Windebank had ruffled the surface of
the deep, unexplored waters of the girl's passion, which, rightly or
wrongly, caused her to surrender her personal preferences and to regard
the matter entirely from the man's point of view. This self-abasement
was, largely, the result of the girl's natural instincts where her
affections were concerned; these had been reinforced by the sentimental
pabulum which enters so much into the fiction that is devoured by girls
of Mavis' age and habit of thought. She argued how it would be
criminally selfish of her to presume on his boyish attachment of the
old days, which might lead him to believe that it was a duty for him to
extend to his old-time playmate the lifelong protection of marriage.
Her lack of personal vanity was such that it never once occurred to her
that she was eminently desirable in his eyes; that he wished for
nothing better than for her to bestow herself, together with her
affections, upon him for lifelong appreciation. She resolved to stifle
her inclinations in order that the man's career should not suffer from
legal companionship with a portionless, friendless girl.
Her unselfish resolutions faltered somewhat when, in resuming the weary
search for chances of employment in the advertising columns of the
newspapers, she came across the following, which was every day repeated
for the remainder of the week:--
"To M...s, who foolishly lost herself in the fog on the night of last
Thursday. She is earnestly urged to write to me, care of Taylor &
Wintle, 43 Lincoln's Inn Fields. Do not let foolish scruples delay you
from letting me hear from you."
She had got as far as writing a reply, but could never quite bring
herself to post it.
A miserable Sunday had urged her to send it to its destination; the
chance purchase of a Sunday paper decided the letter's, and,
incidentally, her own fate. In it she read how, owing to threatened
disturbance on the Indian frontier, Sir Archibald Windebank, D.S.O.,
would shortly leave Aldershot by S.S. Arabia with a reinforcing draft
of the Rifle Brigade.
Mavis tore up her letter, to write another, which she addressed to the
steamer which was to carry him the greater part of his long journey.
She did not give her address; she told him how she believed it would be
for his advantage not to encumber his noble career with concern for
her. She had added that, if it were destined for them to meet, nothing
would give her greater pleasure than to see him again. She ended by
wishing him God-speed, a safe return, a successful and happy life. As
the days passed, with all the indignities and anxieties attending the
quest for employment, the girl's thoughts more and more inclined to
Melkbridge. She longed to breathe its air, tread its familiar ways,
steep herself in the scarcely awakened spirit of the place. She
constantly debated in her mind whether or not she should write to Mr.
Devitt to ask for employment. She told herself how, in doing what she
had resolved upon doing only in the last extremity, she was giving no
more hurt to her pride than it received, several times daily, in her
hopeless search for work. A startling occurrence had put the fear of
London into her heart and decided her to write to Melkbridge. She had
been walking down Victoria Street, raging with anger at the insult that
a rich photographer had offered her, to whom, in reply to an
advertisement, she had applied for work, when her attention was
attracted by a knot of people gathered about a hospital nurse, a girl,
and a policeman.
The nurse, a harsh, forbidding-looking woman, was endeavouring to coax
the girl into a waiting cab. The girl was excitedly appealing for
release to the policeman, to the knot of spectators, to passers-by.
When anyone displayed a sign of active interest in the matter, the
nurse had put her finger to her forehead to signify that her charge was
insane.
Mavis was about to avoid the gathering by crossing the road, when she
caught a glimpse of the girl's face, to recognise it as belonging to
Miss Meakin. Wondering what it could mean, she hastened to her old
acquaintance, who, despite her protests, was being urged towards the
cab.
"It's all a mistake. Let me go! Oh! won't anyone help?" Miss Meakin had
cried as Mavis reached her side.
"What is it? What has happened?" asked Mavis.
"It's you: it's you! Thank Heaven!" cried Miss Meakin.
"What has happened? I insist on knowing," Mavis had asked, as she
glanced defiantly at the forbidding-looking nurse.
"It's not a nurse. It's a man. I know he is. He's followed me, and now
he's trying to get me away," sobbed the girl.
Mavis turned to the nurse, who put her finger to her forehead, as if to
insist that Miss Meakin's mind was unhinged.
Mavis had appealed to the policeman, to declare there must be some
mistake, as she knew Miss Meakin to be of sound mind; but this man had
replied that it was not his place to interfere. Mavis, feeling anxious
for her friend, was debating in her mind whether she should get into
the cab with the girl and the nurse, when a keen-faced-looking man, who
had listened to all that had been said, came forward to tell the
policeman that if he did not interfere, his remissness, together with
his number, would be reported to Scotland Yard.
The policeman, stirred to action, stepped forward, at which the nurse
had sprung into the cab, to be driven away, when Miss Meakin had gone
into hysterics upon Mavis' shoulder.
Later, after she had come to herself in a chemist's shop, she had told
Mavis that she had left "Dawes'," and was now keeping house for an aunt
who was reduced to taking in paying guests somewhere in North
Kensington. She had been to Vincent Square to look up a late paying
guest of her aunt's, who had taken with her some of the household linen
by mistake. Upon her setting out for home, she had met with the uncanny
adventure from which Mavis' timely arrival had released her.
Directly Mavis reached home, she had written to Mr Devitt. Four days
passed, during which she heard nothing in reply. The suspense filled
her soul with a sickening dread. Work at Melkbridge now promised
alluring possibilities, qualities that had never presented themselves
to her mind in the days when she believed that a letter from her would
secure from Mr Devitt what she desired. To her surprised delight, the
fifth morning's post had brought her a letter from Mr Devitt, which
told her that, if she would start at once for Melkbridge, she could
earn a pound a week in the office of a boot manufactory, of which he
was managing director; the letter had also contained postal orders for
three pounds to pay the expenses of her moving from London to
Wiltshire. Mavis could hardly believe her eyes. She had already pawned
most of her trinkets, till now there alone remained her father's gifts,
from which she was exceedingly loath to part. The three pounds, in
relieving her of this necessity, was in the nature of a godsend.
Now she stood on the platform at Melkbridge. Her luggage had been put
out of the train, which had steamed away. Mavis thought that she would
ask the station-master if he knew of a suitable lodging. The man whom
she judged to be this person was, at present, engaged with the porters.
While she waited till he should be at liberty, her mind went back to
the time when she had last stood on the same platform. It had been on
the day when she had come down to Melkbridge fully confident of
securing work with the Devitt family. This had only been a few months
ago, but to Mavis it seemed long years: she had experienced so much in
the time. Then it occurred to her how often Archie Windebank had walked
on the same platform--Archie Windebank, who was now on the sea so many
hundreds of miles from where she stood. She wondered if he ever found
time to think of her. She sighed.
Seeing that the station-master was disengaged, she approached the
spectacled, dapper little man and told him of her wants.
"Would it be for long?" he asked.
"Possibly for years. I'm coming to work here."
"Work!"
"In the office of one of Mr Devitt's companies."
The man assumed an air of some deference.
"Mr Devitt! Our leading inhabitant--sings baritone," remarked the
station-master.
"Indeed!"
"A fair voice, but a little undisciplined in the lower register. This
is quite between ourselves."
"Of course. Do you think you can help me to find rooms?"
"I wish I could. Let me think."
Mr Medlicott, as he was called, put the tips of his fingers together,
while he reflected. Mavis watched his face for something in the nature
of encouragement.
"Dear! dear! dear! dear!" he complained.
"Don't bother. It's good of you to think of it at all," said Mavis.
"Stay! I have it. Why didn't I think of it before? Mrs Farthing: the
very thing."
"Where does she live?"
"The Pennington side of Melkbridge--over a mile from here; but I know
you'd find there everything that you desire."
"Thanks. I'll leave my boxes here and walk there."
"I can save you the trouble. Her husband is guard on the 4.52. If you
can fill up the time till then, it will save you walking all that way,
perhaps, for no purpose."
Mavis thanked the station-master, left her luggage in his care and
walked to the town, where the unmistakable London cut of her well-worn
clothes attracted the attention of the female portion of the
population. She had a cup of tea in a confectioner's, and felt better
for it. She then set out to walk to her old favourite nook on the banks
of the river, a spot rich with associations of her childhood. Her
nearest way was to walk across the churchyard to the meadows, the third
of which bordered the Avon. It only needed a quarter of an hour's walk
along its banks to find the place she wanted. Unconsciously, her steps
led her in a contrary direction from that in which she had purposed
going. Almost before she knew what she had done, she had taken the road
to Haycock Abbey, which was Windebank's Wiltshire home. It required
something of an effort to enable her to retrace her steps. She reached
and crossed the churchyard, where long forgotten memories crowded upon
her; it was with heavy heart that she struck across the meadows.
When she reached the Avon, she found the river to be swollen with the
winter's rain. The water, seamed with dark streaks, flowed turbulently,
menacingly, past her feet. She walked along the river's deserted bank
to the place that she had learned to look upon as her own. Its
discovery gave her much of a shock. She had always pictured it in her
mind as when she had last seen it. Then, it had been in early July. The
river had lazily flowed past banks gaily decorated with timid
forget-me-nots and purple veitch; the ragged robin had looked roguishly
from the hedge. Such was the heat, that the trees of her nook had
looked longingly towards the cool of the water, while the scent of
lately mown hay seemed to pervade the world. That was then.
Now, a desolation had invaded the spot. In place of summer gaiety there
was only dreariness. The flowers had gone; a raw wind soughed along the
river's banks; instead of the scent of the hay there was only the smell
of damp earth, as if to proclaim to the girl that such desolation was
the certain heritage of all living things.
Mavis could not get rid of the impression that the contrast between the
place as she remembered it and as it was now resembled her own life.
She made her way, with all dispatch, to the station. Here she learned
that Mrs Farthing could not take her in until the following day, as her
present "visitors" were not leaving till then. Mavis pricked up her
ears at the mention of visitors; she did not think such polite
euphemisms had penetrated so far afield.
She had little thought to give the matter, as she was concerned to know
where she was going to spend the night. Mr Medlicott solved her
perplexity; he insisted upon Mavis seeing Mrs Medlicott, who proved to
be a simple, kindly countrywoman, who dropped an old-fashioned curtsey
directly she set eyes on the girl. The station-master's wife showed
Mavis a little room and told her that she was welcome to the use of it
for the night, if she were not afraid of being kept awake by the
passing and shunting of trains. Mavis jumped at the offer, whereat Mrs
Medlicott insisted on her sitting down to a solid, homely tea, a meal
which was often interrupted by Mr Medlicott getting up to attend to his
duties upon the platform. When tea was over, there was yet another
hour's daylight. Mrs Medlicott suggested to Mavis that it might be as
well for her to call on Mrs Farthing, to see if she liked her; she
mentioned that Mr Farthing was a very nice man, but that his wife was
not a person everyone could get on with.
Mavis set out for the Pennington end of Melkbridge, where, after some
inquiry, she found that Mrs Farthing lived in an old-world cottage,
which was situated next door to a farm.
The girl's knock brought Mrs. Farthing, first to the window, then to
the door, whereupon Mavis explained her errand, not forgetting to
mention who had recommended her to come.
"Please to come inside," said Mrs. Farthing.
Mavis followed the woman, who was little and sharp-eyed, into a clean,
orderly living room, where she was asked to take a seat. She was
surprised to see her prospective landlady also sit, for all the world
as if she were entertaining a guest.
"Did you say you were taking up church work?" asked Mrs Farthing.
"No, I did not."
"I thought you did," said Mrs Farthing, as her face fell.
"You see, my father was a sea captain, so I have to be so careful to
whom I let my rooms."
"If I thought they weren't respectable, I shouldn't have come here,"
retorted Mavis.
Mrs Farthing winced, but recovered herself.
"Since I have been resident at Pennington Cottage, one colonel, three
doctors, two lawyers, seven reverends, and one banker have visited
here."
"I'm glad to see others appreciate you," remarked Mavis.
"Professional gentlemen and their ladies take to me at once. Did you
tell me your uncle was a reverend?"
"No, I did not," replied Mavis, who was beginning to lose patience.
"You see, my father being a sea captain--"
"I can't see how that's anything to do with letting lodgings," said
Mavis.
"Pardon me, it raises the question of references."
"Of course, I must have yours. I have only your word for the sort of
people you've had here."
Mrs Farthing looked at Mavis in astonishment; she was unaccustomed to
being tackled in this fashion.
"Perhaps, perhaps you'd like to see the sitting-room?" she faltered.
"I should," said Mavis.
Mrs Farthing led the way to a quaint little room, the window of which
overlooked the neighbouring farmyard.
Mavis, although she took a fancy to it at once, was sufficiently
diplomatic to say:
"It might, perhaps, suit me."
Mrs. Farthing pointed out the beauty of the view, a recommendation to
which Mavis subscribed.
The girl's acquiescence emboldened Mrs Farthing to say:
"Did you say that your mother would sometimes visit you?"
Mavis trembled with indignation.
"I did nothing of the kind, and you know it," she cried. "If you wish
to know, I'm employed by Mr Devitt, and should probably have stayed
here for years. If you can't see at a glance what I am, all I can say
is that you've been used to a tenth-rate lot of lodgers."
Mrs. Farthing capitulated.
"Wouldn't you like to see the bedroom?"
"If you don't ask any more silly questions."
"It's hard to forget my father was a sea captain," explained Mrs
Farthing.
A door in the passage opened on to winding stairs, up which vanquished
and victor walked.
From the first floor, a sort of gangway led to the door of a room that
was raised some three feet from the level of where the two women stood.
"Now we ascend the Kyber Pass," cried Mrs Farthing gaily, as she set
foot on the gangway.
As Mavis followed, it occurred to her how this remark might be
invariably retailed to prospective lodgers by Mrs Farthing.
The bedroom's neat appointments made it even more attractive in Mavis'
eyes than the sitting-room.
Mrs. Farthing wanted eight shillings a week for a permanency, but Mavis
stuck out for seven. The issue was presently compromised by the
landlady's agreeing to accept seven and sixpence.
"There's only one thing," said Mrs Farthing, as she sat on the bed;
"and that's my husband."
"What about him?" asked Mavis, who had believed that everything was
settled.
"He simply can't abide my letting rooms; he's on to me about it
morning, noon, and night."
"I'm sorry."
"To think," as he says, "the daughter of a sea captain--" Here Mrs
Farthing caught Mavis' eye, to substitute for what she was about to
say: "But there," he says, "work your fingers to the bone; go and
commit suicide by overdoing it; kill yourself outright with making
other people comfortable, so long as you get your own way."
"Really!"
"That's what he says every minute of the time that he's at home."
When Mavis left Mrs Farthing to walk to the station, she could not help
noticing how the rough and tumble of her experiences had had a
hardening effect upon her once soft heart. It was not so long ago that,
although presumption on a landlady's part would have goaded Mavis into
making an apposite retort, she would have bitterly regretted the pain
that her words may have inflicted. Now, she was indifferent to any
annoyance that she may have caused Mrs Farthing. If anything, she was
rather pleased with herself for having shown the woman her place.
It was something of an experience for Mavis to spend the evening in the
sitting-room of a country railway station. Stillness violently
alternated with the roar and rush of the trains. Mr Medlicott spent his
spare time in the sitting-room, where his eyes never deserted the
faded, uncanny-looking cabinet piano, which spread its expanse of faded
green silk at one end of the room.
Mavis noticed his preoccupation.
"I wonder if you would do me a favour?" she asked.
"And what might that be?"
"If you would sing?"
"Delighted!" he cried, as he excitedly sprang to his feet.
"How nice of you!"
"Stay! What about the accompaniment?"
"I can manage that."
"At sight?"
"I think so."
"You're an acquisition to Melkbridge. There's one other thing."
"I knew you'd disappoint me. What is it?"
"The 7.53," replied the station-master, looking at his watch. "It's
almost due."
"We can make a start," suggested Mavis.
Mr Medlicott quickly produced a collection of old-fashioned ballads,
the covers of many of which were decorated with strange, pictorial
devices.
"Stay! What say to 'Primrose Farm'?"
"Anything, so long as you sing," replied Mavis.
Mr Medlicott delightedly cleared his throat. It did not take Mavis long
to discover that the station-master had little ear for music; he sang
flat, although Mavis did her best to assist him by including in her
accompaniment the notes of the vocal score. The song was no sooner
concluded than the station-master caught up his braided cap and ran
downstairs to meet the 7.53. Upon his return, he sang many songs. No
sooner was one ended than he commenced another; they were only
interrupted by the arrival of trains.
The room became insupportably hot. During one of Mr Medlicott's
absences, Mavis asked his wife if she might open the window that
overlooked the platform. Where Mavis sat by it, she could see Mr
Medlicott performing his duties below. Once or twice, she fancied her
ear caught strange sounds, which could be heard above the shouts of the
porters and the noises of escaping steam; they proceeded from where Mr
Medlicott stood. The noises became more insistent, when it occurred to
Mavis that the station-master was taking advantage of the din to
practise the more uncertain of his notes.
The next morning, when Mavis wanted to pay Mrs Medlicott, the
station-master's wife would not hear of it. She declared that she was
amply repaid by Mavis' accompanying her husband's songs, which was
enough to make him happy for many weeks to come. Mrs Medlicott also
observed that her husband would like to take singing lessons from
Mavis, if the latter cared to teach him.
Mavis walked the good mile necessary to take her to the Melkbridge boot
manufactory with a light heart. She reached it at nine, to find a
square, unlovely building, enclosed by a high stone wall of the usual
Wiltshire type, broken slabs of oolitic formation loosely thrown
together. She explained her errand to the first person she met inside
the gate, and was told to await the arrival of Mr Gaby, the manager,
who was due in half an hour, the time, she afterwards learned, at which
the lady clerks were expected. When Mr Gaby came, she found him to be a
nervous, sandy-haired man, who blushed like any school-girl when he
addressed Mavis. A few minutes later, two colleagues arrived, to whom
she was formally introduced. The elder of these was Miss Toombs, a
snub-nosed, short, flat-chested, unhealthy-looking woman, who was well
into the thirties. She took Mavis' proffered hand limply, to drop it
quickly and set about commencing her work. Her conduct was in some
contrast to the other girl's, who was introduced to Mavis as Miss
Hunter. She was tallish, dark, good-looking, with a self-possessed
manner. The first two things Mavis noticed about her were that she was
neatly and becomingly dressed, also that her eyebrows met above her
nose. She looked at Mavis critically for a few moments, and gave the
latter the impression that she had taken a dislike to her. Then Miss
Hunter advanced to Mavis with outstretched hand to say:
"I hope we shall all be great friends and work together comfortably."
"Thank you," replied Mavis, at which Miss Hunter proceeded to instruct
her in her duties. These were of the kind usually allotted to clerical
beginners, and consisted of the registering, indexing, and sorting of
all letters received in the course of the day.
Mavis worked with a will; her bold, unaffected handwriting emphasised
the niggling scrawliness of Miss Hunter's previous entries in the book.
"Don't work so fast," said Miss Hunter presently, at which Mavis looked
up in surprise.
"If you do, you won't have anything to go on with," continued Miss
Hunter.
About eleven, Mavis learned from Mr Gaby that Mr. Devitt would like to
see her. The manager conducted Mavis to the board room, where she found
Mr Devitt standing before the fire. Directly he saw her, he came
forward with outstretched hand.
"Good morning, Miss Keeves. Why--" He paused, to look at her with some
concern.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"You're different. If I may say so, you look so much more grown up."
"I've had rather a rough time since I last saw you."
"I can well believe it to look at you. Why didn't you write?"
"I didn't like to. It's good of you to do what you've done."
Mr Devitt appeared to think for a few moments before saying:
"I'm sorry I can't do more; but one isn't always in a position to do
exactly what one would like."
"Quite so," assented the girl.
More was said to the same effect, although Mavis could not rid herself
of the impression that he was patronising her. A further thing that
prejudiced her against Devitt was his absence of self-possession. While
speaking, he gesticulated, moved his limbs, and seemed incapable of
keeping still.
"I'll pay you back the three pounds you so kindly sent me, gradually,"
said Mavis presently.
"Wouldn't hear of it; nothin' to me; only too happy to oblige you,"
declared Devitt, showing by his manner that he considered the interview
at an end.
As she walked towards the door, he said:
"By the way, where are you stayin'?"
"At Mrs Farthing's; it's quite near here."
"Quite two miles from us," remarked Devitt, as if more pleased than
otherwise at the information.
"Quite," answered Mavis.
"Well, good-bye! Let me know if I can ever do any-thin' for you," he
cried from the fireplace.
Mavis went back to her work. She had an hour's liberty at one, which
she spent at Mrs Farthing's, who provided an appetising meal of stewed
steak and jam roly-poly pudding.
About three, Miss Toombs made tea on the office fire; she asked Mavis
if she would like to join the tea club.
"What's that?" asked Mavis.
"You pay fourpence a week for tea and biscuits. We take it in turn to
make the tea and wash up: profits equally divided at Christmas."
"I shall be delighted," said Mavis, as she produced her purse.
"Not till tomorrow. Today you're a guest," remarked Miss Toombs
listlessly.
About four, there was so little to do that Miss Toombs produced a book,
whilst Miss Hunter rather ostentatiously opened the Church Times. Mavis
scribbled on her blotting paper till Miss Toombs brought out a
brown-paper-covered book from her desk, which she handed to Mavis.
"It's 'Richard Feverel'; if you haven't read it, you can take it home."
"Thanks. I'll take great care of it. I haven't read it."
"Not read Richard Feverel?" asked Miss Toombs, as she raised her
eyebrows, but did not look at Mavis.
"Is it always easy like this?" Mavis asked of Miss Hunter, as they were
putting on their things at half-past four.
"You call it easy?"
"Very. Is it always like this?"
"Always, except just before Christmas, when there's a bit of a rush,
worse luck," replied Miss Hunter, to add after a moment: "It interferes
with one's social engagements."
Mavis walked to her rooms with a light heart. It was good to tread the
hard, firm roads, with their foundation of rock, to meet and be greeted
by the ruddy-faced, solidly built Wiltshire men and women, many of whom
stopped to stare after the comely, graceful girl with the lithe stride.
When Mavis had had tea and had settled herself comfortably by the fire
with her book, she felt wholly contented and happy. Now and again, she
put down Richard Feverel to look about her, and, with an immense
satisfaction, to contrast the homely cleanliness of her surroundings
with the dingy squalor of Mrs Bilkins's second floor back. It was one
of the happiest evenings she ever spent. She often looked back to it
with longing in her later stressful days.
About seven, she heard a knock at her door. She called out "Come in,"
at which, after much fumbling at the door handle, a big fair man, with
wide-open blue eyes, stood in the doorway. He looked like a huge,
even-tempered child; he carried two paper-covered books in his hand.
"I'm Farthing, miss," the man informed her.
"Good evening," said Mavis, who would scarcely have been surprised if
Farthing had brought out a handful of marbles and started playing with
them.
"The driver's out, miss, so--"
"The driver?" interrupted Mavis.
"Mrs Farthing, miss. I be only fireman when her be about," he humbly
informed her.
"Won't you sit down?"
"I? No, thankee, miss. I thought you might want summat to read, so I
brought you these."
Here Mr Farthing handed Mavis a Great Western Railway time table,
together with "Places of Interest on the Great Western Railway."
"How kind of you! I shall be delighted to read them," declared Mavis
untruthfully.
Then, as Mr Farthing was about to leave the room, she said:
"I'm afraid I'm in your bad books."
"Bad what, Miss?" he asked, perplexed.
"Books--that you're offended with me."
"I, miss?"
"For coming here as your lodger?"
Mr Farthing stared at her in round-eyed amazement.
"I understood from Mrs Farthing that you object to her taking lodgers,"
explained Mavis.
Mr Farthing's jaw dropped; he seemed dumbfounded.
"That you're complaining about Mrs Farthing overworking herself every
minute you're at home," continued Mavis.
Mr Farthing backed to the door.
"And you tell her she's only killing herself by doing it."
Hopelessly bewildered, Mr Farthing clumped downstairs.
Mavis laughed long and softly at this refutation of Mrs Farthing's
pretensions. Before she again settled down to the enjoyment of her
book, she looked once more about the cleanly, comfortable room, which
had an indefinable atmosphere of home.
"Yes, yes," thought Mavis, "it is--it is good to be alive."