tomaton! Seriously, quite seriously he said it to her--"We
s'll have folks talking!" She laughed in a breathless, hurried way,
as they tramped downstairs.

At the bottom of the stairs Calladine, the caretaker, met them. He
was a tall thin man with a black moustache--about fifty years old.

"Have you done for tonight, all of you?" he said, grinning in echo
to Alvina's still fluttering laughter.

"That's a nice rotten pair of steps you've got up there for a
death-trap," said Arthur angrily. "Come down on top of me, and I'm
lucky I haven't got my leg broken. It _is_ near enough."

"Come down with you, did they?" said Calladine good-humouredly. "I
never knowed 'em come down wi' me."

"You ought to, then. My leg's as near broke as it can be."

"What, have you hurt yourself?"

"I should think I have. Look here--" And he began to pull up his
trouser leg. But Alvina had given the candle to Calladine, and fled.
She had a last view of Arthur stooping over his precious leg, while
Calladine stooped his length and held down the candle.

When she got home she took off her dress and washed herself hard and
washed the stained sleeve, thoroughly, thoroughly, and threw away
the wash water and rinsed the wash-bowls with fresh water,
scrupulously. Then she dressed herself in her black dress once
more, did her hair, and went downstairs.

But she could not sew--and she could not settle down. It was
Saturday evening, and her father had opened the shop, Miss Pinnegar
had gone to Knarborough. She would be back at nine o'clock. Alvina
set about to make a mock woodcock, or a mock something or other,
with cheese and an egg and bits of toast. Her eyes were dilated and
as if amused, mocking, her face quivered a little with irony that
was not all enjoyable.

"I'm glad you've come," said Alvina, as Miss Pinnegar entered. "The
supper's just done. I'll ask father if he'll close the shop."

Of course James would not close the shop, though he was merely
wasting light. He nipped in to eat his supper, and started out again
with a mouthful the moment he heard the ping of the bell. He kept
his customers chatting as long as he could. His love for
conversation had degenerated into a spasmodic passion for chatter.

Alvina looked across at Miss Pinnegar, as the two sat at the meagre
supper-table. Her eyes were dilated and arched with a mocking,
almost satanic look.

"I've made up my mind about Albert Witham," said Alvina. Miss
Pinnegar looked at