The Real Charlotte. 237 



sight of Christopher, looking at her with an expression from 

 which he had not time to remove his emotions, and for a 

 moment she wished that the earth would open and swallow 

 her up. She reddened visibly, but recovered herself, and at 

 once made her way out into the street towards him. 



" How are you again, Mr. Dysart ? You just came in 

 time to get a specimen of the res angusta domi,^^ she said, 

 in a voice that contrasted almost ludicrously with her last 

 utterances. ^' People like David, who talk about the ad- 

 vantages of poverty, have probably never tried buying fish 

 in Lismoyle. It's always the way with these drunken old 

 hags. They repay your charity by impudence and bad 

 language, and one has to speak pretty strongly to them to 

 make one's meaning penetrate to their minds." 



Her eyes were still red and swollen from her violent crying 

 at the funeral. But for them, Christopher could hardly 

 have believed that this was the same being whom he had 

 last seen on the sofa at Tally Ho, with the black gloves and 

 the sal volatile. 



" Oh yes, of course," he said vaguely ; " everyone has to 

 undergo Mary Norris some time or other. If you are going 

 back to Tally Ho now, I can drive you there." 



The invitation was lukewarm as it well could be, but had 

 it been the most fervent in the world Charlotte had no in- 

 tention of accepting it. 



" No thank you, Mr. Dysart. I'm not done my market- 

 ing yet, but Francie's at hone and she'll give you tea. Don't 

 wait for me. I've no appetite for anything to-day. I only 

 came out to get a mouthful of fresh air, in hopes it might 

 give me a better night, though, indeed, I've small chance of 

 it after what I've gone through." 



Christopher drove on, and tried not to think of Miss 

 Mullen or of his mother or Pamela, while his too palpably 

 discreet hostess elbowed her way through the crowd in the 

 opposite direction. 



Francie was sitting in the drawing-room awaiting her 

 visitor. She had been up very early making the wreath of 

 white asters that Charlotte had laid on Mrs. Lambert's 

 coffin, and had shed some tears over the making of it, for 

 the sake of the kindly little woman who had never been 

 anything but good to her. She had spent a trying morning 



