her chair, but still
keeping his place in his book.

She dried up the spot on the manuscript. Then she wrote: "Anthony
Eustace Failing, the subject of this memoir, was born at Wolverhampton."
But she wrote no more. She was fidgety. Another drop fell from the roof.
Likewise an earwig. She wished she had not been so playful in flinging
her golosh into the path. The boy who was overthrowing religion breathed
somewhat heavily as he did so. Another earwig. She touched the electric
bell.

"I'm going in," she observed. "It's far too wet." Again the cloud parted
and caused her to add, "Weren't you rather kind to Flea?" But he was
deep in the book. He read like a poor person, with lips apart and a
finger that followed the print. At times he scratched his ear, or ran
his tongue along a straggling blonde moustache. His face had after all a
certain beauty: at all events the colouring was regal--a steady crimson
from throat to forehead: the sun and the winds had worked on him daily
ever since he was born. "The face of a strong man," thought the lady.
"Let him thank his stars he isn't a silent strong man, or I'd turn
him into the gutter." Suddenly it struck her that he was like an Irish
terrier. He worried infinity as if it was a bone. Gnashing his teeth,
he tried to carry the eternal subtleties by violence. As a man he often
bored her, for he was always saying and doing the same things. But as
a philosopher he really was a joy for ever, an inexhaustible buffoon.
Taking up her pen, she began to caricature him. She drew a rabbit-warren
where rabbits were at play in four dimensions. Before she had introduced
the principal figure, she was interrupted by the footman. He had come up
from the house to answer the bell. On seeing her he uttered a respectful
cry.

"Madam! Are you here? I am very sorry. I looked for you everywhere. Mr.
Elliot and Miss Pembroke arrived nearly an hour ago."

"Oh dear, oh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Failing. "Take these papers. Where's
the umbrella? Mr. Stephen will hold it over me. You hurry back and
apologize. Are they happy?"

"Miss Pembroke inquired after you, madam."

"Have they had tea?"

"Yes, madam."

"Leighton!"

"Yes, sir."

"I believe you knew she was here all the time. You didn't want to wet
your pretty skin."

"You must not call me 'she' to the servants," said Mrs. Failing as they
walked away, she limping with a stick, he holding a great umbrella over
her. "I will not have it." Then more pl