“Why?”

“We’re quite new people, while the Perigals are a county family.  But, somehow, I don’t think he’ll make Vic happy.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s not happy himself.  Everything he takes up he wearies of; he gets pleasure out of nothing.  And the pity of it is, he’s no fool; if anything, he’s too many brains.”

“How can anyone have too many?”

“Take Perigal’s case.  He’s too analytical; he sees too clearly into things.  It’s a sort of Rontgen ray intelligence, which I wouldn’t have for worlds.  Isn’t it old Solomon who says, ’In much wisdom there is much sorrow’?”

“Solomon says a good many things,” said Mavis gravely, as she remembered how the recollection of certain passion-charged verses from the “Song” had caused her to linger by the canal at Melkbridge on a certain memorable evening of her life, with, as it proved, disastrous consequences to herself.

“Have you ever read the ’Song’?” asked Harold.

“Yes.”

“I love it, but I daren’t read it now.”

“Why?”

“More than most things, it brings home to me my—­my helplessness.”

The poison, begotten of hatred, made Mavis thankful that the Devitt family had not had it all their own way in life.

When she next looked at Harold, he was intently regarding her.  Mavis’s glance dropped.

“But now there’s something more than reading the ‘Song’ that makes me curse my luck,” he remarked.

“And that?”

“Can’t you guess?” he asked earnestly.

Mavis did not try; she was already aware of the fascination she possessed for the invalid.

For the rest of the time they were together, Mavis could get nothing out of Harold; he was depressed and absent-minded when spoken to.  Mavis, of set purpose, did her utmost to take Harold out of himself.

“Thank you,” he said, as she was going.

“What for?”

“Wasting your time on me and helping me to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Never mind,” he said, as he wheeled himself away.

When Mavis got back to Mrs Budd’s, she found a bustle of preparation afoot.  Mrs Budd was running up and downstairs, carrying clean linen with all her wonted energy; whilst Hannah, her sour-faced assistant, perspired about the house with dustpan and brushes.

“Expecting a new lodger?” asked Mavis.

“It’s my daughter, Mrs Perkins; she’s telegraphed to say she’s coming down from Kensington for a few days.”

“She’ll be a help.”

Mrs Budd’s face fell as she said: 

“Well, miss, she comes from Kensington, and she has a baby.”

“Is she bringing that too?”

“And her nurse,” declared Mrs Budd, not without a touch of pride.

When Mrs Perkins arrived, she was wearing a picture hat, decorated with white ostrich feathers, a soiled fawn dust-coat, and high-heeled patent leather shoes.  She brought with her innumerable flimsy parcels (causing, by comparison, a collapsible Japanese basket to look substantially built), and a gaily-dressed baby carried by a London slut, whose face had been polished with soap and water for the occasion.