COMMUTER'S WIFE 273 



gardens of the rich yield them, even in satisfaction 

 in proportion to the outlay ; but perhaps it is well, 

 else we middlings would have no ground upon 

 which to meet them, which would deprive us of 

 much merriment. 



I lunched in the garden to-day, and Martha served 

 me with her own hands, a mark of attention denoting 

 either special favour or a desire for the opportunity 

 of private discourse. Really she is not as plump as 

 she was, and though she says nothing, I sometimes 

 feel the ghost of the " 'ome-brewed " is between us. 



She arranged the little table that we keep under 

 the rose arbour for after-dinner coffee quite deftly 

 in the breeziest corner, and had brought out the 

 tray before I realized what she was about. But as 

 my look of inquiry was unanswered, I asked more as 

 a form than from a desire for information, "Where 

 is Delia?" 



"She is not feeling exactly herself, Mrs. Evan," 

 Martha replied, stopping short with pursed-up lips, 

 evidently hesitating between merely answering the 

 question and opening a conversation. 



" I wonder why she didn't tell me she was ill," 

 I said half to myself. 



