een: "Awfully sorry, Uncle Felix; Mother's wired for us."
Save for the general uneasiness which attended on all actions of that
woman, Felix would have felt relieved at their going. They had disturbed
his life, slipped between him and Nedda! So much so that he did not even
expect her to come and tell him why they had gone, nor feel inclined to
ask her. So little breaks the fine coherence of really tender ties! The
deeper the quality of affection, the more it 'starts and puffs,' and from
sheer sensitive feeling, each for the other, spares attempt to get back
into touch!

His paper--though he did not apply to it the word 'favorite,' having that
proper literary feeling toward all newspapers, that they took him in
rather than he them--gave him on Friday morning precisely the same news,
of the rick-burning, as it gave to Stanley at breakfast and to John on
his way to the Home Office. To John, less in the know, it merely brought
a knitting of the brow and a vague attempt to recollect the numbers of
the Worcestershire constabulary. To Felix it brought a feeling of
sickness. Men whose work in life demands that they shall daily whip
their nerves, run, as a rule, a little in advance of everything. And
goodness knows what he did not see at that moment. He said no word to
Nedda, but debated with himself and Flora what, if anything, was to be
done. Flora, whose sense of humor seldom deserted her, held the more
comfortable theory that there was nothing to be done as yet. Soon enough
to cry when milk was spilled! He did not agree, but, unable to suggest a
better course, followed her advice. On Saturday, however, receiving
Stanley's wire, he had much difficulty in not saying to her, "I told you
so!" The question that agitated him now was whether or not to take Nedda
with him. Flora said: "Yes. The child will be the best restraining
influence, if there is really trouble brewing!" Some feeling fought
against this in Felix, but, suspecting it to be mere jealousy, he decided
to take her. And, to the girl's rather puzzled delight, they arrived at
Becket that day in time for dinner. It was not too reassuring to find
John there, too. Stanley had also wired to him. The matter must indeed
be serious!

The usual week-end was in progress. Clara had made one of her greatest
efforts. A Bulgarian had providentially written a book in which he
showed, beyond doubt, that persons fed on brown bread, potatoes, and
margarine, gave th