They were filthy after the burial. There was just a minute’s hesitation before they gave her a room. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. He was painfully in earnest, too. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. He was alarmed when she returned to the stage and her eyes passed over him in the audience. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. She wanted to know. It was a capital diversion; and as usual the Leatherneck bested the Britisher, in seven rounds. ’” “But that is flat rebellion!” said Mr. 219 “Some in Europe, a few down south, none here.
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