The Real Charlotte. 25s 



It was on the first day of the partridge shooting that Mr. 

 Lambert came back to Rosemount. The far-away banging 

 of the guns down on the farms by the lake was the first 

 thing he heard as he drove up from the station ; and the 

 thought that occurred to him as he turned in at his own 

 gate was that public opinion would scarcely allow him to 

 shoot this season. He had gone away as soon after his 

 wife's funeral as was practicable, and having honeymooned 

 with his grief in the approved fashion (combining with this 

 observance the settling of business matters with his wife's 

 trustees in Limerick), the stress of his new position might 

 be supposed to be relaxed. He was perfectly aware that 

 the neighbourhood would demand no extravagance of sorrow 

 from him ; no one could expect him to be more than 

 decently regretful for poor Lucy. He had always been a 

 kind husband to her, he reflected, with excusable satis- 

 faction ; that is to say, he had praised her housekeeping, 

 and generally bought her whatever she asked for, out of her 

 own money. He was glad now that he had had the good 

 sense to marry her \ it had made her very happy, poor 

 thing, and he was certainly now in a better position than he 

 could ever have hoped to be if he had not done so. All 

 these soothing and comfortable facts, however, did not 

 prevent his finding the dining-room very dreary and silent 

 when he came downstairs next morning in his new black 

 clothes. His tea tasted as if the water had not been boiled, 

 and the urn got in his way when he tried to prop up the 

 newspaper in his accustomed manner ; the bacon dish had 

 been so much more convenient, and the knowledge that his 

 wife was there, ready to receive gratefully any crumb of news 

 that he might feel disposed to let fall, had given a zest to 

 the reading of his paper that was absent now. Even Muffy's 

 basket was empty, for Muffy, since his mistress's death, had 

 relinquished all pretence at gentility, and after a day of 

 miserable wandering about the house, had entered into a 

 league with the cook and residence in the kitchen. 



Lambert surveyed all his surroundings with a loneliness 

 that surprised himself: the egg-cosy that his wife had 

 crocheted for him, the half-empty medicine bottle on the 

 chimney-piece, the chair in which she used to sit, and felt 

 that he did not look forward to the task before him of sort- 



