garment or so, and walking downstairs. Man, still slave to the button and the razor, clings to the ancient ceremonial potter and gets himself up by instalments. Harriet was knotting her tie before the sound of splashing was heard in the next room. She accordingly classed her new possession as a confirmed potterer and made her way down by what Peter with more exactness than delicacy, had already named the Privy Stair. This led into a narrow passage, containing the modern convenience before-mentioned, a boot-hole and a cupboard with brooms in it, and debouched at length into the scullery and so to the back door.
The garden, at any rate, had been well looked after. Then were cabbages at the back, and celery trenches, also an asparagus bed well strawed up and a number of scientifically pruned apple-trees. There was also a small cold-house sheltering a hardy vine with half a dozen bunches of black grapes on it and a number of half-hardy plants in pots. In front of the house, a good show of dahlias and chrysanthemums and a bed of scarlet salvias lent colour to the sunshine. Mr Noakes apparently had some little taste for gardening or at any rate a good gardener; and this was the pleasantest thing yet known of Mr Noakes, thought Harriet. She explored the potting-shed, where the tools were in good order, and found a pair of scissors, armed with which she made an assault upon the long trail of vine-leaves and the rigid bronze sheaves of the chrysanthemums. She grinned a little to find herself thus supplying the statutory ‘feminine touch’ to the household and, looking up, was rewarded with the sight of her husband. He was curled on the sill of the open window, in a dressing-gown, with The Times on his knee and a cigarette between his lips, and was trimming his nails in a thoughtful leisurely way, as though he had world and time enough at his disposal. At the other side of the casement, come from goodness knew where, was a large ginger cat, engaged in thoroughly licking one fore-paw before applying it to the back of its ear. The two sleek animals, delicately self-absorbed, sat on in a mandarin-like calm till the human one, with the restlessness of inferiority, lifted his eyes from his task, caught sight of Harriet and said ‘Hey!’—whereupon the cat rose up, affronted, and leapt out of sight.
‘That,’ said Peter, who had sometimes an uncanny way of echoing one’s own thoughts, ‘is a very dainty, ladylike occupation.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Harriet. She stood on one leg to inspect the pound or two of garden mould adhering to her stout brogue shoe. ‘A garden is a lovesome thing. God wot.’
‘Her feet beneath her pettitcoat like little mice stole in and out,’ agreed his lordship gravely. ‘Can you tell me, rosy-fingered Aurora, whether the unfortunate person in the room below me is being slowly murdered or only having a fit?’
‘I was beginning to wonder myself,’ said Harriet; for strange, strangled cries were proceeding from the sitting-room. ‘Perhaps I had better go and find out.’
‘Must you go? You improve the scenery so much. I like a landscape with figures.... Dear me! what a shocking sound—like Nell Cook under the paving-stone! It seemed to come right up into the room beside me. I am becoming a nervous wreck.’
‘You don’t look it. You look abominably placid and pleased with life.’
‘Well, so I am. But one should not be selfish in one’s happiness. I feel convinced that somewhere about the house there is a fellow-creature in trouble.’
At this point Bunter emerged from the front door, walking backwards across the strip of turf, with eyes cast upward as though seeking a heavenly revelation, and solemnly shook his head, like Lord Burleigh in The Critic.
‘Ain’t we there yet?’ cried the voice of Mrs Ruddle from the window.
‘No,’ said Bunter, returning, ‘we appear to be making no progress at all.’
‘It seems,’ said Peter,
The garden, at any rate, had been well looked after. Then were cabbages at the back, and celery trenches, also an asparagus bed well strawed up and a number of scientifically pruned apple-trees. There was also a small cold-house sheltering a hardy vine with half a dozen bunches of black grapes on it and a number of half-hardy plants in pots. In front of the house, a good show of dahlias and chrysanthemums and a bed of scarlet salvias lent colour to the sunshine. Mr Noakes apparently had some little taste for gardening or at any rate a good gardener; and this was the pleasantest thing yet known of Mr Noakes, thought Harriet. She explored the potting-shed, where the tools were in good order, and found a pair of scissors, armed with which she made an assault upon the long trail of vine-leaves and the rigid bronze sheaves of the chrysanthemums. She grinned a little to find herself thus supplying the statutory ‘feminine touch’ to the household and, looking up, was rewarded with the sight of her husband. He was curled on the sill of the open window, in a dressing-gown, with The Times on his knee and a cigarette between his lips, and was trimming his nails in a thoughtful leisurely way, as though he had world and time enough at his disposal. At the other side of the casement, come from goodness knew where, was a large ginger cat, engaged in thoroughly licking one fore-paw before applying it to the back of its ear. The two sleek animals, delicately self-absorbed, sat on in a mandarin-like calm till the human one, with the restlessness of inferiority, lifted his eyes from his task, caught sight of Harriet and said ‘Hey!’—whereupon the cat rose up, affronted, and leapt out of sight.
‘That,’ said Peter, who had sometimes an uncanny way of echoing one’s own thoughts, ‘is a very dainty, ladylike occupation.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Harriet. She stood on one leg to inspect the pound or two of garden mould adhering to her stout brogue shoe. ‘A garden is a lovesome thing. God wot.’
‘Her feet beneath her pettitcoat like little mice stole in and out,’ agreed his lordship gravely. ‘Can you tell me, rosy-fingered Aurora, whether the unfortunate person in the room below me is being slowly murdered or only having a fit?’
‘I was beginning to wonder myself,’ said Harriet; for strange, strangled cries were proceeding from the sitting-room. ‘Perhaps I had better go and find out.’
‘Must you go? You improve the scenery so much. I like a landscape with figures.... Dear me! what a shocking sound—like Nell Cook under the paving-stone! It seemed to come right up into the room beside me. I am becoming a nervous wreck.’
‘You don’t look it. You look abominably placid and pleased with life.’
‘Well, so I am. But one should not be selfish in one’s happiness. I feel convinced that somewhere about the house there is a fellow-creature in trouble.’
At this point Bunter emerged from the front door, walking backwards across the strip of turf, with eyes cast upward as though seeking a heavenly revelation, and solemnly shook his head, like Lord Burleigh in The Critic.
‘Ain’t we there yet?’ cried the voice of Mrs Ruddle from the window.
‘No,’ said Bunter, returning, ‘we appear to be making no progress at all.’
‘It seems,’ said Peter,
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