"That's best known to them as caused of it."

The little model's face went the colour of carnations.

"I can't help what he does," she said. "What should I want him for--a
man like that? It wouldn't be him I'd want!" The genuine contempt in
that sharp burst of anger impressed the aged butler.

"I'm not a-sayin' anything," he said; "it's all a-one to me. I never
mixes up with no other people's business. But it's very ill-convenient.
I don't get my proper breakfast. That poor woman--she's half off her
head. When the baby's buried I'll have to go and look out for another
room before he gets a-comin' out."

"I hope they'll keep him there," muttered the little model suddenly.

"They give him a month," said Creed.

"Only a month!"

The old butler looked at her. 'There's more stuff' in you,' he seemed to
say, 'than ever I had thought.'

"Because of his servin' of his country," he remarked aloud.

"I'm sorry about the poor little baby," said the little model in her
stolid voice.

"Westminister" shook his head. "I never suspected him of goin' to live,"
he said.