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Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. It did not take a mind reader to glean that she had suddenly gained the boy’s obsessive attention. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. That “entirely English” comment was said just to provoke me. “You shall drive home with me in a hansom, if you will. One doesn’t want to lose a grain.
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