doubtful if she would ever see thirty-eight again. Once he had had the
most romantic feelings about her. He could recall the slim flexibility
of her waist, the timorous melting invitation of her eyes. And now ...
Such was human existence!

She sat up erect on her chair. She did not apologize for being late.
She made no inquiry as to his neuralgia. On the other hand, she was
not cross. She was just neutral, polite, cheerful, and apparently
conscious of perfection. He strongly desired to inform her of the
exact time of day, but his lips would not articulate the words.

"Maud," she said with divine calm to the maid who bore in the baked
York ham under its silver canopy, "you haven't taken away that brush
that's in the passage."

(Another illustration of Nellie's inability to live up to six thousand
pounds a year; she would always refer to the hall as the "passage!")

"Please'm, I did, m'm," replied Maud, now as conscious of perfection
as her mistress. "He must have took it back again."

"Who's 'he?'" demanded the master.

"Carlo, sir." Upon which triumph Maud retired.

Edward Henry was dashed. Nevertheless, he quickly recovered his
presence of mind and sought about for a justification of his previous
verdict upon the negligence of five women.

"It would have been easy enough to put the brush where the dog