TO THE LIGHTHOUSEto himself, she supposed, on the lawn. He never no-ticed her. Some said he was dead; some said she wasdead. Which was it? Mrs. Bast didn’t know for certaineither. The young gentleman was dead. That shewas sure. She had read his name in the papers.

There was the cook now, Mildred, Marian, somesuch name as that — a red-headed woman, quick-tempered like all her sort, but kind, too, if you knewthe way with her. Many a laugh they had had to-gether. She saved a plate of soup for Maggie; a biteof ham, sometimes; whatever was over. They livedwell in those days. They had everything they wanted(glibly, jovially, with the tea hot in her, she unwoundher ball of memories, sitting in the wicker armchairby the nursery fender). There was always plenty doing,people in the house, twenty staying sometimes, andwashing up till long past midnight.

Mrs. Bast (she had never known them; had livedin Glasgow at that time) wondered, putting her cupdown, whatever they hung that beast’s skull therefor? Shot in foreign parts no doubt.

It might well be, said Mrs. McNab, wantoning onwith her memories; they had friends in eastern coun-tries; gentlemen staying there, ladies in evening dress;she had seen them once through the dining-roomdoor all sitting at dinner. Twenty she dared say inall their jewellery, and she asked to stay help washup, might be till after midnight.

Ah, said Mrs. Bast, they’d find it changed. Sheleant out of the window. She watched her son Georgescything the grass. They might well ask, what hadbeen done to it? seeing how old Kennedy was sup-posed to have charge of it, and then his leg got so164
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