(astonished)
Your son! There now! And I never knew you were even married!
(quite at her ease)
Didn’t you!
No.
(nervously)
I forgot. I haven’t introduced you. Mr. Brown—Mrs. Seagrave.
(bows)
How do you do.
(turning to Miss Deanes again)
And now what is your piece of news, Miss Deanes?
(volubly)
Oh yes. Imusttell you. You’d never guess. Somebodyelseis engaged to be married,(to Janet)Who do you think?
I’ve no idea.
Bertha Aldenham—to Mr. Bulstead.
(starts)
Mr. Bulstead?
Yes. But I forgot.Youwouldn’t knowthem. They didn’t come here till long after you went away. They bought Brendon Park from the Malcolms three years ago. You remember the Malcolms, Janet? Janet(whose attention has wandered)
Eh? Oh yes, of course.
Which Mr. Bulstead is it? The eldest?
Yes. Montague.
(under her breath)
Monty Bulstead! Engaged!
Are the Aldenhams pleased?
Very, I expect. The Bulsteads are so rich, you see.
Does he live down here; this Mr. Montagu Bulstead, I mean?
Oh no. He’s here on leave. He’s in the army. He only got back three months ago(with a little giggle). He and Bertha haven’t taken long to settle things, have they?
No, they haven’t taken long.
But I dare say hewilllive here when he’s married. As the Bulsteads are so rich.- The father makes frilling and lace and so on. All those things people used to make so much better by hand. And Bertha may not care about army life. I know I shouldn’t.(Janet smiles discreetly.)It’s not always verynice, is it?
(to Johnny who has been staring at him roundeyed across the room, with heavy geniality).
Well, young man. Who are you staring at, eh? Doyouwant to talk to me?
(quite simply, in his high piping treble)
No, thank you.
Sh! Johnny! You don’t mean that. Go to Mr. Brown when he speaks to you.
Very well, Mummie.
[Does so slowly.
(taking his hands)
Now then what shall we talk about, you and I?
I don’t know.
Don’t you? Suppose we see if you can say your catechism then? Would you likethat?
What’s catechism?
Come, Johnny, I’m sure your mother has taught you your catechism.. Can you repeat your “Duty towards your Neighbour”?(Johnny shakes his head emphatically). Try “My duty towards my neighbour....
Mother says it’s every one’s duty to be healthy and to be happy! Is that what you mean?
(scandalized)
No! No!
Well, that’s what mother taught me.
(coming to the rescue)
I’m afraid he doesn’t know his catechism yet, Mr. Brown. You see he’s only eight.(Brown bows stiffly.)Run away, Johnny, and play in the garden for a little.
[Leads him to the door in the bay.
All right, Mummie.
[Johnny runs out into the garden. A certain relief is perceptible on his departure. It is felt that his interview with Mr. Brown has not been a success....
(who feels that a change of subject will be only tactful)
There now, Hester! I do believe you’ve never asked after Dicky! He’ll be so offended!
(smiling)
Has Dicky been ill again? I thought you said he was better yesterday.
He was. But he had a relapse, poordarling. I had to sit up all last night with him!
What has been the matter with him?
Some sort of chill, Dr. Rolt said. I wasdreadfullyanxious.
What a pity! ‘Colds are such troublesome things for children.
(puzzled)
Children?
Yes. You were speaking of a child, weren’t you? Miss Deanes
Oh no. Dicky is mycockatoo. He’s thesweetestbird. Talks quite like a human being. And never a coarse expression. That’s so unusual with cockatoos.
Indeed?
Yes. The voyage, you see. They come all the way from South America and generally they pick up the most dreadful language, poor lambs—from the sailors.
But Dicky didn’t. He has such a pure mind(rising). And now I really must be going. I have all kinds of people I want to tell about Mr. Bulstead’s engagement.
[Shaking hands with Mrs. Clouston and Janet.
I must be off too. Wait one moment, Miss Deanes. Good-bye, Mrs. Clouston.
[Shakes hands with Mrs. Clouston and bows stiffly to Janet. He has not yet forgiven Johnny for not knowing his catechism.
(To Hester.)
Good-bye, Miss De Mullin. Shall I see you at Evensong?
[Shakes hands with Hester.
I expect so.
Poof!
[Brown and Miss Deanes go out.
What a fool Miss Deanes is!
(indifferently)
She always was, wasn’t she?
I suppose so. Going on in that way about her ridiculous cockatoo! And thathideouslittle curate!
I don’t see why you should sneer at all my friends.
Are they your friends, Hester? Then I won’t sneer at them. But you can’t call Mr. Brownhandsome, can you?
Mr. Brown is a very good man and works very hard among the poor. That’s better than being handsome.
Yes. But less agreeable, isn’t it? However, ifyoulike him there’s an end of it. But he needn’t have begun asking Johnny his catechism the very first time he met him. I don’t call it good manners,
How was he to know the poor child was being brought up to be a little heathen?
[Takes up her hat and cape and begins putting them on.
(shrugs)
How, indeed!
Are you going out, Hester? Lunch will be ready in half an hour. .
Only to take Mrs. Wason her soup, Aunt Harriet.
(looking curiously at Hester)
Do you want to marry Mr. Brown, Hester?
My dear Janet!
Well, Aunt Harriet, there’s nothing to be ashamed of if she does. Do you, Hester?
Why do you ask such a question?
Never mind. Only answer it(pause). You do like him, don’t you?
I’ve a great respect for Mr. Brown.
Don’t blush, my dear. I dare say that’s much the same thing.
I won’t talk to you about it. You only sneer. Janet
I wasn’t sneering. Come, Hester, don’t be cross. Why shouldn’t we be friends? I might help you.
How couldyouhelp me?
(looking quizzically at poor Hester’s headgear)
I might make you a hat, my dear.
Mr. Brown doesn’t notice those things.
All men notice those things, Hester.
(with a sneer)
I suppose that’s whyyouwear such fine clothes.
(quite good-humoured)
That’s it. Fine feathers make fine birds.
Well,Icall it shameless.
My dear Hester, you’re always being ashamed of things. You always were, I remember. What is there to be ashamed of in that? What on earth were women given pretty faces and pretty figures for if not to make men admire them and want to marry them?
(acidly)
Well,yourplan hasn’t been very successful so far, anyhow!
(quietly)
Nor has yours, Hester.
[Hester makes exclamation of impatience and seems about to reply angrily. Then thinks better of it and goes out without a word. Janet follows her retreat with her eyes and smiles half cynically, half compassionately. The Curtain falls.
Scene:On the edge of Brendon Forest.
Time:three days later. A road runs along the hack of the stage front which it is separated by a fence and high hedge. In this hut somewhat to the right is a stile and also a gate. Round the trunk of a large tree to the left is a rough wooden seat. The stage is empty when the curtain rises. Fhen enter Mrs. De Mullin, Janet and Johnny. They approach stile from the left and come through gate. There isan exit on the right of the stage through the Forest.
I don’t think I’ll come any farther, mother.
You won’t come up to the house?
No, thanks(rather grimly). I don’t want to see Mrs. Bulstead. And I’m sure Mrs. Bulstead doesn’t want to see me.
I wish Hester could have come.
Why couldn’t she?
She’s at the church putting up the decorations. It’s the Harvest Thanksgiving to-morrow.
(laughing)
Mr. Brown!
Janet, I told you you weren’t to laugh at Hester about Mr. Brown. It’s not kind.
(lightly)
It’s all right mother. Hester’s not here.
Still, I don’t like it, dear. It’s not quite...
(soothing her)
Not quitenice. I know, mother. Not the way really refined and ladylike young women talk. But I’m only quite a common person who sells hats. You can’t expect all these refinements fromme!
[Mrs. De Mullin sighs.
Are you going to turn back?
Not at once. I’ll wait for you here a little with Johnny in case they’re out. Why, they’ve put a seat here. [She sits on the side farthest from the road.
Usen’t there to be one?
No. Nor a gate in my time. Only a stile.
Very likely, dear. I don’t remember. I don’t often come this way.
(nods)
I often used to come along it in the old days.
I dare say. Well, I must be getting on to my call or I shall be late. You’re sure you won’t come?
Quite, mother. Good-bye.
[Mrs. De Mullin goes of through the forest.
Where’s grandmother going, Mummie?
Up to the big house.
What big house?
Brendon Park.
Mayn’t I go up to the big house too?
No, dear. You’re to stay with mother.
Who lives at the big house?
Nobody you know, dear.
That’s why I asked, Mummie.
Well, don’t ask any more, sonny. Mother’s rather tired. Run away and play, there’s a good boy.
[Kisses him.
Very well, Mummie.
[Johnny disappears into the wood. Janet falls into a brown study. Presently a footstep is heard coming along the roady but she seems to notice nothing. Then a young man climbs over the stile. He starts as he sees her and draws back, then advances eagerly, holding out his hand.
Janet, is thatyou!
(smiling)
Yes, Monty.
(astonished)
JANET! Here!
Yes, Monty.
(nodding over his shoulder)
Ourstile, Janet!
Our stile.
(nods)
The stile where you and I first met.
(relapsing for a moment into something like sentiment)
Yes. I thought I must see it again—for the sake of old times.
How long ago it all seems!
(matter of fact)
It is a longish time, you know.
(thoughtfully)
I believe that was the happiest month of my life, Janet.
Was it, Monty?
Yes(pause). I say, when did you come down? You don’tliveat home any longer, do you?
No. I only came down three days ago.
By Jove itisgood to see you again. Why, it’s eight years since we used to be together, you and I.
Nearly nine.
Yes... You’re not coming to live down here again, are you?
No; why?
I thought perhaps...
(cynically)
Would you dislike it very much if I did, Monty?
Of course not.
Confess. Youdidfeel it would be rather awkward?
Well, of course...
However you can set your mind at rest. I’m not. [His relief at this intelligence enables him to realize the pleasure he is getting from seeing her again.)
I say, Janet, how well you’re looking! I believe you’re handsomer than ever.
(smiling)
Am I?
You know you are.
[Pause. He looks at her admiringly. She turns away with a little smile.
(feeling that they are getting on to dangerous ground)
Well, Monty. Where have you been these eight years?
Abroad with my regiment. We’ve been ordered all over the place. I’ve been home on leave, of course. But not for the last three years. Not since father bought the Park. I’ve never been at Brendon since ...(pause).
Since we were here? Don’t blush, Monty.(He nods shamefacedly.)How did he come to buy the place?
It was just a chance. He saw it advertised, came and looked at it and bought it. He’s no idea I was ever at Brendon before(rather bitter laugh). None of them have. I have to pretend not to know my way about.
Why?
It seems safer.(Janet nods.)Sometimes I almost forget to keep it up. I’m such a duffer about things. But I’ve managed hitherto. And now, of course, it’s all right as I’ve been here three months. I may be supposed to know the beastly place by this time.
Beastly? You’re not very polite.
[Monty laughs shamefacedly.
You got my note, didn’t you?
What note?... Oh, eight years ago, you mean? Yes.
I left it with the woman at the lodgings. As you were coming over that afternoon, I thought it safer than sending a message. And of course I daren’t telegraph.(Janet nods.)I was awfully sick at having to go away like that. All in a moment. Without even saying good-bye. But I had to.
Of course. Was your mother badly hurt?
No. Only stunned. That was such rot. If people get chucked out of a carriage they must expect to get stunned. But of course they couldn’t know. The telegram just said “Mother hurt. Carriage accident. Come at once.” It got to me at the lodgings a couple of hours before you were coming. I had just time to chuck my things into a bag and catch the train. I wanted to come back after the mater was all right again. But I couldn’t very well, could I?
Why not?
Well, the regiment was to sail in less than three weeks and the mater would have thought it rather rough if I’d gone away again. I’d been away six weeks as it was.
Oh yes. Of course.
(with half a sigh)
To think if I hadn’t happened to be riding along that road and seen you at the stile and asked my way, you and I might never have met. What a chance life is!
(nods)
Just a chance(pause).
Why did you go away, Janet? You weren’t going the last time I saw you.
Wasn’t I?
No. At least you said nothing about it.
I didn’t know I was going then. Not for certain.
Whydidyou go?
(quietly)I had to, Monty.
(puzzled)
You had to?(Janet nods.)But why?
Mother found out.
About us?
Yes. And she told father.
(genuinely distressed)Oh, Janet! I’m so sorry.
(shrugs)
It couldn’t be helped,
Does he know who it was?
Whoyouwere? No.
You didn’t tell him?
MONTY! As if I should.
I don’t know. Girls generally do.
Ididn’t.
No. I suppose you wouldn’t. But you’re different from most girls. Do you know there was always something rather splendid about you, Janet?
(curtseys)
Thank you.
I wonder he didn’tmakeyou tell.
He did try of course. That was why I ran away.
I see. Where did you go to?
London.
To London? All alone? (Janet nods) Why did you do that? And why didn’t you let me know?
(shrugs)
You were out of England by that time.
But why London?
I had to go somewhere. And it seemed better to go where I shouldn’t be known. Besides it’s easier to be lost sight of in a crowd.
But what did you do when you got there?
(calmly)
I got a place in a shop, Monty.
A shop? You!
Yes, a hat-shop, in Regent Street. My dear Monty, don’t gape like that. Hat-shops are perfectly respectable places. Almost too respectable to judge by the fuss two of them made about employingme.
What do you mean?
Well, when I applied to them for work they naturally asked if I had ever worked in a hat-shop before. And when I said “No” they naturally asked why I wanted to begin. In the innocence of my heart I told them. Whereupon they at once refused to employ me—not in the politest terms.
Poor Janet. What beastly luck! Still...
[Hesitates.
Yes, Monty?
I mean naturally they couldn’t be expected...
(flustered)
At least I don’t mean that exactly.
Only... [Stops.
My dear Monty, I quite understand what you mean. You needn’t trouble to be explicit. Naturally they couldn’t be expected to employ an abandoned person like me to trim hats. That was exactly their view.
But I thought you said youdidget a place in a shop? Janet
Yes. But not at either ofthoseshops. They werefartoo virtuous.
How did you do it?
Told lies, Monty. I believe that’s how most women get employment.
Told lies?
Yes. I invented a husband, recently deceased, bought several yards of crêpe and a wedding ring. This is the ring.
[Takes off glove.
Oh, Janet, how beastly for you!
[Janet shrugs.
(laughing)
Everything seems to be “Beastly” to you, Monty. Brendon and telling lies and lots of other things. Luckily I’m less superfine.
Didn’t they find out?
No. That was why I decided to be a widow. It made inquiries more difficult.
I should have thought it made them easier.
On the contrary. You can’t cross-question a widow about a recent bereavement. If you do she cries. I always used to look tearful directly my husband’s name was even mentioned. So they gave up mentioning it. Women are so boring when they will cry.
They might have inquired from other people.
Why should they? Besides there was no one to inquire from. I called him Seagrave—and drowned him at sea. You can’t ask questions of the sharks.
Oh, Janet, how can you joke about it?
I couldn’t—then. I wanted work-too badly. But I can now—with your kind permission, I mean.
And you’ve been at the shop ever since?
Notthatshop. I was only there about six months —till baby was born, in fact...
(horrified)
Janet, there was a baby!
Of course there was a baby.
Oh, Janet! And you never wrote! Why didn’t you write?
I did think of it. But on the whole I thought I wouldn’t. It would have been no good.
No good?
You were in India.
I was in England.
Not then.
You ought to have written at once—directly your mother found out.
One week after you sailed, Monty(defiantly). Besides why should I write?
Why? I could have married you, of course.
If I’d asked you, you mean? Thank you, my dear Monty.
No, I don’t. Of course I should have married you. Imusthave married you.
(looking at him thoughtfully)
I wonder if you would.
Certainly I should. I should have been bound in honour.
I see. Then I’m glad I never wrote.
You’reglad?Now?
Yes. I’ve done some foolish things in my life, Monty, but none quite so foolish as that. To marry a schoolboy, not because he loves you or wants to marry you but because he thinks he’s “bound in honour.” No, thank you.
I don’t mean that. You know I don’t, Janet. I loved you, of course. That goes without saying. I’d have married you like a shot before, only the Governor would have made such a fuss. The Governor was so awfully straitlaced about this sort of thing. When I was sent away from Eton he made the most ghastly fuss.
Were you sent away from Eton for “this sort of thing”?
Yes—at least I don’t mean that either. But it was about a girl there. He was frightfully wild. He threatened to cut me off if I ever did such a thing again. Such rot! As if no one had ever been sent away from school before!
(reflectively)
I didn’t know you’d been sent away from Eton.
Didn’t you? I suppose I didn’t like to tell you-for fear of what you’d think(bitterly). I seem to have been afraid of everything in those days. .
Noteverything, Monty.
Oh, you know what I mean. I was awfully afraid of the Governor, I remember. I suppose all boys are if their parents rag them too much. But I would have married you, Janet, if I’d known. I would honestly.
(blandly)
What is the pay of a British subaltern, Monty?
The Governor would have had to stump up, of course.
Poor Mr. Bulstead! He’d havelikedthat, I suppose? And what about your poor unhappy colonel? And all the other little subalterns?
(obstinately)
Still, you ought to have written.
(quietly)
Younever wrote.
I couldn’t. You know that. You never would let me. That was why I couldn’t send that note to you to tell you I was going away. You said my letters would be noticed.
Yes, I forgot that. That’s the result of having a father who is what is called old-fashioned.
What do you mean?
All letters to the Manor House are delivered locked in a bag. They always have been since the Flood, I believe, or at least since the invention of the postal service. And, of course, father won’t have it altered, So every morning there’s the ritual of unlocking this absurd bag. No one is allowed to do that but father—unless he is ill. Then mother has the privilege. And of course he. scrutinizes the outside of every letter and directly it’s opened asks who it’s from and what’s inside it. Your letters would have been noticed at once.
How beastly!
The penalty of having nothing to do, Monty.
I know. What a mess the whole thing is!
Just so. No. There was no way out of it except the hat-shop.
(remorsefully)
It’s awfully rough on you, Janet.
Never mind. I dare say I wasn’t cut out for the wife of a subaltern, Monty; whereas I make excellent hats.
(savagely)
You’re still making the d———d things?
Yes. Only at another shop. The Regent Street place had no room for me when I was well enough to go back to work. But the woman who kept it gave me a recommendation to a friend who was starting in Hanover Street. A most superior quarter for a hatshop, Monty. In factthesuperior quarter. Claude et Cie was the name.
(Monty(rather shocked)
AFrenchshop?
No more French than you are, Monty. It was kept by a Miss Hicks, one of the most thoroughly British people you can possibly imagine. But we called ourselves Claude et Cie in order to be able to charge people more for their hats. You can always charge fashionable women more for their clothes if you pretend to be French. It’s one of the imbecilities of commerce. So poor dear Miss Hicks became Madame Claude and none of our hats cost less than seven guineas.
Do people buy hats at such a price?
Oh yes. Everybody in Society bought them. Claude et Cie was quite the rage that Season. Nobody who was anybody went anywhere else.
She must have made a great deal of money.
On the contrary. She made nothing at all and narrowly escaped bankruptcy.
But I don’t understand. If her hats were so dear and everybody bought them?
Everybodyboughtthem but nobodypaidfor them. In the highest social circles I believe people never do pay for anything—certainly not for their clothes. At least, nobody paid Miss Hicks, and at the end of six months she was owed £1,200 and hadn’t a penny to pay her rent.
Why didn’t shemakethem pay.
She did dun them, of course, but they only ordered more hats to keep her quiet which didn’t help Miss Hicks much. And when she went on dunning them they said they should withdraw their custom. In fact, she was in a dilemma. If she let the bills run on she couldn’t pay her rent. And if she asked her customers to pay their bills they ceased to be customers.
How beastly!
Not again, Monty!
Whatdidshe do?
She didn’t do anything. She was too depressed. She used to sit in the back room where the hats were trimmed and weep over the materials, regardless of expense. Finally things came to a crisis. The landlord threatened to distrain for his rent. But just as it looked as if it was all over with Claude et Cie a capitalist came to the rescue.Iwas the capitalist.
You?
Yes. I’d an old Aunt once who was fond of me and left me a legacy when I was seventeen. Four hundred pounds.
That wouldn’t go very far.
Four hundred pounds goes a longish way towards setting up a shop. Besides, it was nearly five hundred by that time. My shares had gone up. Well, I and my five hundred pounds came to the rescue. I paid the rent and the most clamorous of the creditors, and Miss Hicks and I became partners.
But what was the good of that if the business was worth nothing?
It was worth several hundred pounds to any one, who had the pluck to sue half the British aristocracy. I sued them. It was tremendous fun. They were simply furious. They talked as if they’d never been sued before! As for Miss Hicks she wept more than ever and said I’d ruined the business.
Hadn’t you?
That business. Yes. But with the £1,200—or as much of it as we could recover—we started a new one. A cheap hat-shop. Relatively cheap that is-for Hanover Street. We charged two guineas a hat instead of seven, 100 per cent, profit instead of... You can work it out for yourself. But then our terms were strictly cash, so we made no bad debts. That was my idea.
But you said nobody ever paid for their hats.
Not in the highest social circles. But we drew our customers from the middle classes who live in South Kensington and Bayswater, and are not too haughty to pay for a hat if they see a cheap one.
But wasn’t it a frightful risk?
(cheerfully)
It was a risk, of course. But everything in life is a risk, isn’t it? And it succeeded, as I felt sure it would. We’re quite a prosperous concern nowadays, and I go over to Paris four times a year to see the latest fashions. That, my dear Monty, is the history of Claude et Cie.
[Pause.
And you’ve never married, Janet?
No.
MONTY {hesitates)
Is it because...?
Because?
Because you still care for me?
Monty, don’t be vain.
(repelled)
I didn’t mean it like that. Janet, don’t laugh. Of course, I’m glad if you don’t care any more. At least, I suppose I ought to be glad. It would have been dreadful if you had gone on caring all these years and I not known. But did you?
No, Monty, I didn’t. You may set your mind at rest.
You’re sure?
Quite. I had too many other things to think of.
Do you mean that beastly shop?
(quietly)
I meant my baby.
Ourbaby. Is it alive?
Of course. What do you mean, Monty?
I thought, as you didn’t say...(thoughtfully)Poor little beast!(Janet makes gesture of protest.)Well, it’s rough luck on the little beggar, isn’t it? What’s become of him, Janet?
What’sbecomeof him! My dear Monty, what should have become of him? He’s quite alive as I said and particularly thriving.
Do you mean he’slivingwith you!.. But, of course, I forgot, you’re supposed to be married.
(correcting him)
A widow, Monty. An inconsolable widow!
Where is he? In London?
No. As a matter of fact he’s probably not fifty yards away. Over there.
[Points towards the wood.
(jumping up)
Janet!(nervously looking round).
(rallying him)
Frightened, Monty?
Of course not(shamefacedly)
Just a little?
(regaining courage)
Janet, let me see him.
(amused)
Would you like to?
Of course I should. He’smybaby as well as yours if it comes to that. Do call him, Janet.
All right,(calls)Johnny!(pause)John... ny!(‘To Monty)You mustn’t tell him, you know.
Of course not.
(off r.)
Yes, Mummie.
Come here for a minute. Mother wants to speak to you.
(off)
Very well, Mummie.(Enters r.)Oh, Mummie, I’ve found such a lot of rabbits. You must come and see them.(Seeing Monty for the first time, stares at him.)Oh!
Come here, youngster. Come and let me look at you.(Johnny goes to him slowly. Monty, grasping both hands, draws him to him, looking at him long and keenly.)He’s like you, Janet.
Is he?
Yes. He has your eyes. So your name’s Johnny, young man?
Yes.
Well, Johnny, will you give me a kiss?(Monty leans forward. He does so.)That’s right.
And now, Mummie, come and look at my rabbits.
Not yet, dear. Mother’s busy just now.
May I go back to them then?
Yes.
Suppose I won’t let you go?
I’ll make you—and so will Mummie.
Plucky little chap. Off with you.
[Kisses him again, then releases his hands. Johnny trots off r. again. Monty follows him with his eyes. Pause.
Well, Monty, what do you think of him?
(enthusiastic)
I think he’ssplendid.
(proudly)
Isn’t he? And such a sturdy little boy. He weighed ten pounds before he was a month old.
I say, Janet.
(shyly)
Yes?
(hesitates)
You’ll let me kiss you once more, won’t you? For the last time?...(she hesitates). You don’t mind?
(heartily).
Of course not, Monty. You’re notmarriedyet, you know.
JANET! My dear, dear Janet!
[Seizes her and kisses her fiercely.
(releasing herself gently)
That’s enough, Monty.
(remorsefully)
I’m afraid I behaved like an awful brute to you, Janet.
(lightly)
Oh no.
Yes, I did. I ought to have married you. I ought to marry you still. On account of the boy.
(quite matter of fact)
Oh well, you can’t do that now in any case, can you —as you’re engaged to Bertha Aldenham.
You’ve heard about that? Who told you?
A worthy lady called Miss Deanes.
I know. A regular sickener.
My dear Monty!
Sorry.
She brought the good news. The very day I arrived as it happened. We’ve hardly talked of anything else at the Manor House since—except father’s illness, of course.