"I can't say," answered the fellow; "but I'll inquire from the sexton, William Morgan. Then there came briskly along the path towards her, an Englishman. You know what's what. “You are very good,” she said. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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