“There are two things to be done,” he said softly to himself. She thought of all sorts of odd and desperate expedients, and with passionate petulance rejected them all. Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves. “You will pardon me, sir,” he said in a subdued tone, “but I think that you have forgotten to look at your engagement book. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. There was one letter. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. . . .
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