"Straight from home, my dear, I believe." He fumbled in his pocket, and after some time extricated a pencil with which he began to poke the tobacco in the bowl in an ineffectual aimless fashion, becoming completely engrossed in the occupation apparently. There was another long pause. The woman went on working, or feigning to work, for her hands were trembling a good deal.
After some moments she raised her head again. "John, will you mind attending to me one moment, and answering these questions as quickly as you can?" The emphasis on the last word was so faint as to be almost as imperceptible as the touch or exasperated contempt which she could not absolutely banish from her tone.
Her husband, looking up, met her clear bright gaze and reddened like a schoolboy.
"Whereabouts 'from home' does he come?" she asked in a studiedly gentle fashion.
"Well, from London, I think," he replied, almost briskly for him, though he stammered and tripped over the words. "He's a University chap; I used to hear he was clever—I don't know about that, I'm sure; he used to chaff me, I remember, but
"Chaff you? You have met him then?"
"Yes, my dear"—he was fast relapsing into his slow drawl again—"that is, I went to school with him, but it's a long time ago. Brookfield—yes, that must be his name."
She waited a moment, then "When is he coming?" she inquired abruptly.
"Let me see—to-day's"
"Monday," the word came swiftly between her set teeth.
"Ah, yes,—Monday—well," reflectively, "next Monday, my dear."
