"Deary me, m'm," responded the ingenuous Harris, "I didn't see him, not
more than any of the others; he just comed to t' window of t' servants'
hall, as we were having our breakfasts, and he told us all at once. He
was that full of it, was John!"
Rachel asked no more questions; but she was not altogether sorry that
the matter had already become one of common gossip throughout the house.
Meanwhile she made no allusion to it at breakfast, but her observation
had been quickened by the events of the morning, and thus it was that
she noticed and recognized the narrow blue book which was too long for
her husband's breast-pocket, and would show itself as he stooped over
his coffee. It was his check-book, and Rachel had not seen it since
their travels.
That afternoon a not infrequent visitor arrived on his bicycle, to which
was tied a bouquet of glorious roses instead of a lamp; this was Charles
Langholm, the novelist, who had come to live in Delverton, over two
hundred miles from his life-long haunts and the literary market-place,
chiefly because upon a happy-go-lucky tour through the district he had
chanced upon what he never tired of calling "the ideal rose-covered
cottage of my dreams," though also for other reasons unknown in
Yorkshire.
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