"His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. 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. ’ ‘I didn’t bring him,’ Gerald returned swiftly. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. The only inconvenience I feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds.
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