"Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. “When are you going away?” He asked. ‘That is good. Come down with me to the Lodge directly. Marry, come up! I'll show him what an injured wife can do. Do you hear me, Sir? Won't you stir!" "Not a step," replied Langley, gruffly. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette.
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