vant to
look after the lodgers if your father intends keeping things on as they
were, and you'll be more at home with us."

Mrs. Purkiss spoke in accents almost ghoulish, with a premonitory relish
of macabre conversations.

"Stay with you?" repeated Jenny. "Stay with _you_? What, and hear
nothing but what I ought to have done? No, thanks; May and I'll stay on
here."

"You wouldn't disturb your Uncle William," Mrs. Purkiss continued
placidly, "if that's what you're thinking of. You'd be gone to the
theater when he reads his paper of an evening."

"If I went to stay anywhere," said Jenny emphatically, "I should go and
stay with Uncle James at Galton. But I'm not, so please don't keep on,
because I don't want to talk to _any_body."

Mrs. Purkiss sighed compassionately and vowed she would forgive her
nieces under the circumstances, would even spend the evening in an
attempt to console the sad household of Hagworth Street.

"But I want to be alone, and so does May."

"Well, I always used to say you was funny girls, and this proves my
words true. Anyone would think you'd be glad to talk about your poor
mother to her only sister. But, no, girls nowadays seem to have no
civilized feelings. Slap-dashing around. In and out. Nothing but amuse
themselves, the uncultivated things, all the time. No wonder the papers
carry on about it. But I'm not going to stay where I'm not wanted and
don't need any innuendives to go."

Here Mrs. Purkiss rose from the chair and, having in a majestic sweep
of watered silk attained the door, paused to deliver one severe
speculation.

"If you treated your poor mother as you behave to your aunt, I'm not
surprised she got ill. If my Percy or my Claude behaved like you--well,
there, but they don't, thank goodness."

Jenny listened quite unmoved to the swishing descent of her aunt. She
was merely glad to think her rudeness had been effectual in driving her
away, and followed her downstairs very soon in order to guarantee her
departure.

One by one the funereal visitors went their ways. One by one they faded
into the sapphire dusk of April. Some went in sable parties like
dilatory homing cattle, browsing as they went on anecdotes of the dead.
On the tail of the last exit, their father, somewhat anxiously, as if
afraid of filial criticism, went also. He sat for a long time, as he
told them afterwards, without drinking anything, the while he stared at
his silk hat enmeshed in crape, and when he