the hall, rubbing his oily hands, and repeating in a voice thickened by adenoids:
"I'm afraid there's no room in the dining-room for all you fellahs. Say, this is awful, ain'd it? My missus is half-crazy id the kitchen."
Kirke scarcely passed a pound of butter or a wedge of cheese across his counter that day without dropping a word or two to the customer about the return of Delight. His words were seed that sprang up and bore fruit with tropic swiftness. That evening he strolled across to The Duke, and, after being served with a glass of Scotch by Charley Bye, draped himself in his old posture against the newel post. Regardless of Bastien's glowering looks, he hung there, tantalizing, shrewd, dropping the right word into the ear of each man who hesitated near him, now and then giving vent to his staccato laugh.
By half-past nine the bar of The Duke was almost empty and Beemer's was full to overflowing. There was excitement in the air of Beemer's, exhilaration. By comparison The Duke of York seemed lifeless, dull, an empty cocoon, from which the butterfly had flown.
The kitchen at The Duke of York was much perturbed by Delight's return to Brancepeth. The fact that she had come to Beemer's made social intercourse with her impossible, for it was an unwritten law that no calls should be made between the two houses. Mrs. Bye and Annie hoped to meet her on the street, but their strolls to and fro past The British American brought no sign from her, and old Davy learned from Beemer's hostler that she never had set foot on the pavement since her arrival. Mrs. Bye sent Queenie with a message to her, but it was
